Miracle
by Grunt
Summary: As long as his body can grasp his sword he refuses to fade away. The title of struggler defines his existance. It is time for the black swordsman to enter another war. A war between Masters and Servants. A war for the holy grail.
1. Chapter 1 Hound of War

**Miracle?**

**Chapter 1**

**Hound of War **

He felt cheated somehow.

It wasn't like he had thought a lot about the afterlife while he had been alive.

He had been busy keeping himself alive and his enemies dead after all.

Still, he had expected something... grander. Angels with harps maybe?

He snickered, the scars on his face twitching painfully at the uncharacteristic movement.

No.

For him, he had thought they would have at least a nice little corner of hell.

To heap some misery and pain upon his tortured soul and break his spirit, yes that had sounded like the most plausible of things.

A quiet little corner of hell just for him, yes, that certainly sounded nice.

Still, even then, he had fought on, grasped his sword and slashed at the demons that tried to kill him and his companions.

Another snicker, this time it grew into bellyaching laughter.

No, no one but him would call that thing he swung around so easily a sword.

Not that it mattered.

In the end, even those that had been called immortal, god-like, all powerful and complete had tasted this swords edge.

To this cursed blade they had been just another victim. Another demon-spawn destroyed.

Still the blade craved more blood, more battles and most importantly more hatred.

Another snicker.

Who was he trying to kid? That sword, no matter how much blood it shed didn't have anything to do with it.

He was the cursed one, not that humongous piece of iron he called a sword. Or maybe he was the curse?

A name feared even by demons, a name spit out in the moment of death, a dying curse on every monster's lips. That sounded about right.

And in the end even the ones he made directly responsible for his suffering had spit out his cursed name when he killed them.

Not all of them, no, one had escaped death, no, more than that, she had, all things considered won.

She had gambled, fooled her monstrous comrades, her underlings, her god and even him, her tool.

She had played them for a fool and in the end had claimed her prize.

**Humanity.**

**Mortality.**

**Innocence.**

He didn't care for those things, yet that monster had somehow succeeded in attaining all of them.

Or maybe she had reclaimed them?

They had been humans too long ago, he thought.

Before they had given away everything, before they had sacrificed everything that was dear to them to gain a power unattainable for a mere human.

Now the other four monsters lay dead.

**By his hand.**

No, by _his sword._

By the blade he had bathed in the blood of so many monster, the blade that had cut apart so many wicked spirits drawn to his cursed self.

Among them the one he had sworn to kill even if it cost him his life.

Somehow he had thought it would be more rewarding.

There had been no pleasure from seeing his foe lying on the ground. Helpless, powerless and somehow it hurt.

It hurt to see that man like that again.

Just like back then, when he had offered them all as a sacrifice.

But this time there was no one left to offer. There was no one to grant his pleas.

Only the man he betrayed, who had betrayed him after feeling betrayed by him.

Another snicker.

Damn, the whole freaking thing was just too fucked up

He was just glad it was over.

Closure. That was all he had felt at that moment.

A feeling of finally finishing what they had started.

No pride, no happiness, not even some kind of sadistic pleasure from seeing his enemies dead on the ground.

There was nothing left to feel.

He had killed the **ghosts** that had hunted him.

He had killed the **monsters** that he had hunted.

He had killed the **demons** that had orchestered the hunt.

And in the end he would have killed the god that had allowed those wretched beings to exist if that thing called god hadn't simply disappeared after losing it's hands.

Just like a bad dream.

Now it was all over. He had felt his self disappear even as that strange world he had invaded broke apart around him.

He had felt hell's pull upon his body, felt that giant maelstrom of evil that tried to take him down.

Maybe he had been hallucinating but for a moment he had heard thousands of voices screaming for him to join them in their torment.

But as long as that scarred body of his could still grasp his sword he simply refused to disappear.

So he had fought, screamed and raged. He had slashed and hacked apart everything coming close enough to him to taste his blade and after he had started losing count of his strikes his enemies were finally gone.

Then..

**His final mistake.**

The moment he had relaxed he had felt something new and before he could raise his sword again he was torn away from this dying world.

Just like that, he realised, he had finally died.

Not that death seemed all that great up till now.

This wasn't hell, nor was it heaven. He was pretty sure he wasn't even in his own world anymore.

He was somewhere else.

Caught in a current of something he couldn't really identify.

Whatever it was it was simply too big for him to see. He was like a pebble in the ocean. All around him there were colors, all the colors he knew and some he didn't, dancing around him, hiding things from his view he was sure his mind couldn't handle.

Only sometimes he could hear them. Voices, some loud, some less so, but all of them demanding something from him or scorning him for being who he was.

Another snicker.

Even in death, hatred and bloodlust still clang to him like that annoying elf and most of those voices didn't like that one bit.

Another voice, this time a question he hadn't heard before.

He gave it a minutes thought.

Finally, he nodded his consent.

He would play that things game, maybe, just maybe he would finally find some way to fight again.

Because this kind of existence, beyond anything he could call reality, may not have been hell, but it was just as unacceptable for him as hell would have been. Just existing, for no reason and to no goal that was something he simply couldn't bear anymore.

To swing that large slab of iron again, to cleave his foes in two and struggle onwards no matter what.

To see his comrades one more time, to fight for someone once again.

Again, he felt a pull, drawing him somewhere, most likely wherever that voice had come from he mused.

This was going to be interesting.

--

This world, he thinks as he blocks the girls way, is pretty different from anything he has seen before.

Of course in some ways it is the same.

Even though that cursed mark is gone, evil spirits still seek him out.

And he is helping a witch. Again.

And now he is going to fight a girl that reminds him a bit of that fool of a girl back home.

A quiet snicker as he readies himself for combat.

Since when did he consider this cursed rathole of a world his home?

His home are the fields of battle, no matter where, wherever blood is spilt, wherever the fighting is the most fierce that is were he is at home.

Like right now.

That girl before him, he can sense her strength. It radiates from her like nothing he has ever seen before.

So this is a true servant, he thinks.

"You must be servant Assassin."

Her voice is clear, revealing neither hesitation nor doubt.

He can appreciate that. All that pep talk stuff and mocking of his enemies, he doesn't care about that.

He simply nods and smiles.

--

It is truly a frightening sight.

One eye gazing at her like that, while the rest of his face disappears in the shadows.

Nevertheless she is the servant Saber, she will not back down. To save her master, she must pass through this gate into the temple.

To save her master she must defeat this swordsman before her.

But she hesitates.

This man, more than any other servant she has encountered up till now, is covered in blood.

No, more than that, this man radiates death and bloodlust. His whole body, even his sword reeks of death.

She attacks.

Too fast for a mere human to dodge, enough to make some of the weaker servants sweat.

Her invisible sword is parried by the massive slab of iron this man swings around as if it weighted nothing.

Mores strikes follow, their swords meet, again and again.

Sparks fly through the night as the blade empowered by magic meets the blade bathed in the blood of monsters.

**Holy sword** _meets_ **cursed sword.**

Neither one will yield.

He knows that he can't allow himself to be hit by her sword, the power contained within it is far too great for even a single hit to be allowed to strike true. As always he fights against an opponent that is superior to him as far as power or speed goes.

She too accepts that her armor will not safe her from this blade. Its size alone would make a mockery out of any non magic armor. Her senses tell her that even magical armor will be of no use.

This sword does not care for things like armor. Every time it swings by she can hear it screaming for blood, screaming for bloody murder and most of all screaming for her blood.

If she goes only by his aura she doesn't understand how such a man can be summoned by the holy grail. He reeks of death, but there is more.

He doesn't feel right. He doesn't feel like a servant at all. He feels like an outsider.

But if she considers his skill.

It is a wonder that he was not summoned as the Servant Saber. His skill with that blade is magnificent. Every single move drilled into his body, there is no hesitation on his part, she can't say who of the two of them is more skilled in sword-fighting.

This man would have made a great Saber, she thinks.

Seeing his hand come up to her side she dodges and swings at the limp, intend on taking at least one arm from him for such a weak attack.

Heeding her bodies warning she jumps back, making the giant blade of this black swordsman miss her by mere inches.

That attack would have killed her if it had hit. Only her danger sense saved her from being cleaved in half.

No, she corrects herself.

**This man is a fabulous Assassin.**

--

Seeing the girl take care of the boy that was thrown down the temple gates the servant Assassin stares at the new attacker.

The red-clad man catches his stare and narrows his eyes at him.

He is being judged again.

Smirking he grips his weapon tighter.

"Someone like you shouldn't exist, just what kind of servant are you!"

This time his grin is truly terryifing as he muses on an answer.

"I'm not supposed to exist?"

The smell of death grows even stronger as the black swordsman raises his sword.

"So, this must be a miracle, right?"

He doesn't understand why he is here, or why he is so different from the others summoned to this place, all he knows is that he has entered another war.

_That's okay,_ he thinks.

**He's good at war.**

_So very good._

AN: Well, I apologize to anyone for the troubles this may cause them, because right now I'm reuploading this story, one chapter at a time instead of the compilation chapters I did before.

This should clear up any problems concerning the timeframe of the story.

Also all the chapters had some slight editing done to them, so please enjoy them. Seeing how this ends at chapter 5, and chapter 6 and 7 have been released for a while now their upload will follow shortly.


	2. Chapter 2 Clashing Blades

**Chapter 2**

**Clashing Blades**

He can't help it.

It's impossible for him to look away from this battle.

Every time he tries to avert his gaze his eyes move as if possessing a will of their own.

His own body forces him to watch this match between the man he simply can't accept as anything but an enemy and that black swordsman that fought with Saber.

He can not look away, but neither can he bear to look at them anymore.

If his body tells him to watch than his entire being tells him to get as far away from that big slab of iron that man wields as he can. He knows that as sure as the sun will rise again in the morning, if he watches this battle just a little bit longer, he will understand it. Understand the thoughts that brought forth its making. Understand the history that made the sword what it is today.

The thought of tracing this sword makes him ill.

His stomach churns at the very idea of creating that thing. He doesn't want that. Giving shape to this sword through his own body is something he simply can not do. To forge something so blatantly cursed, his minds screams at the hatred needed to forge this weapon.

After all only hate could burn hot enough to melt the demonic blood this weapon is made of. That is all there is to the blade that could kill even the mightiest of the fantastic creatures in a single blow.** Hate and Blood. Blood and Hate.**

Yet

Some dark part, deep inside his soul tells him gleefully, one day, he will have a use for that cursed blade and he knows that too. He wants to protest, to deny that possibility, but that voice will not allow such self-delusion.

One day, he will trace this sword, he will drink deeply from its hatred and swing it with all the rage he has within himself.

That is what his body tells him, because this body was made for swords. That is the only truth behind that statement.

So he burns it into his memory, this sword that screams for blood and death every time it cuts through the cold air.

He watches even when he knows it will damn his soul to do so.

This man swings that blade so easily, swings it as if it were but an extension of his arm.

_Too fast for a blade so thick._

_Too strong for a sword so heavy._

_Too skillful for something so dirty._

Even with his limited skills he can see the difference between the red-clad Servant and his black opponent.

One has acquired the skill to fight even Servants. A dance-like movement, graceful, yet a hidden rage lurks behind those gentle moves. And the longer the fight lasts the hotter that rage burns, as if it was being drawn out by the mere presence of his enemy.

It is those movements that he understands. Within his mind he can see himself doing them. Its only natural. Those moves fit him perfectly, as if they had only waited for him to finally discover them.

The other one simply holds his Dragonslayer, for this blade can not be called anything else, he realizes, his stance reveals nothing, yet they all know that his skill is beyond the servant called Archer.

When it comes to swords that black swordsman is just that good. It is a simply truth.

For anyone else that giant blade would be a hindrance at best, a fatal weakness at worst.

To the servant called Assassin it is the most perfect weapon he has ever used.

It is crude, cumbersome and far too big as far as swords go.

But the power it holds is as undeniable as is its thirst for blood. The reach it grants him serves him well and to him who can wield that sword with one hand alone, its weight is more of a comfort than a hindrance.

_Sword and Swordsman._ **Power and Skill.**

It is a deadly combination.

Deadly for even the most powerful of servants.

--

Confronted with such a relentless onslaught of attacks Archer gives ground.

But he does not falter. His beautiful long swords have been shattered once already.

That taught him the folly of blocking that mans strikes.

So he dodges.

_He parries._

But he does not block anymore. It would be too wasteful to have his swords broken again.

He draws his opponent in. His skill might not be able to reach Assassin but there is something he can see. With those eyes schooled by battle after battle he can see it.

The road to victory.

That single path that only appears once in a battle.

He can see it, taste it and most importantly follow it.

Now all he needs to do is to force his enemy unto that road. Just one step, that is all that man needs to take on Archers road and it will be over. From then onwards the only viable outcome is his complete victory.

That is his ability honed by combat, by slaughtering those who endangered the people in his sight. The ability cultivated by a live that has sacrificed everything.

He smiles, cynical as always.

Victory is not assured, but that has never stopped him before.

--

She has turned her back to the battle that rages behind her.

It is **unforgivable.**

Neither as a king nor as knight would she have ever accepted this.

"Please pull yourself together, Master."

As a servant summoned by the holy grail to fight in the Holy Grail War it is...necessary.

She can not allow her master to die here, not by the blade of that treacherous Archer.

She does not understand why he would go against the order of his master, why he would hate that boy that much. No, she can not even understand why anyone would want to hate her master.

He is a good person, someone she is proud to call master. Someone she can understand, from time to time at least.

That scares her.

Not only because of such gentle thoughts, totally unbefitting of a king, but also because of what she sees in those two servants that fight each other so savagely.

She can not explain it, but when she looks at them, she sees her master.

When they attack she sees her master, when they defend she sees her master and that scares her.

The Kind of Knights is scared.

How preposterous.

It is something that can not be denied however, the boy, the man and the swordsman, all three of them, they are the same.

Three different sides of the same coin. A shudder runs down her spine at that thought.

Why is it so easy to picture her young and honest master with that evil sword, cutting apart his enemies? Why do his clothes change so easily to red and his hair to white in her thoughts? Why can she just as easily picture her master's smile on the face of those two servants bent on battle.

It is impossible.

It must be impossible.

It scares her, because, as a king she can not deny the truth she already knows.

She too is the same as her master.

She is on a road which can only end in the two broken heroes doing battle right now.

For the first time, the King of Knights accepts her fears as justified and wonders.

--

He can not stop it.

His face twists into that frightening smirk his enemies fear so much.

That man, his opponent, he possesses something that makes him enjoy this battle more than he would have expected.

Archer's strikes lack the strength of the blond girl, his speed is also below hers. Yet, this battle makes his heart beat so fast. Every time his sword slashes through the space his enemy occupied mere seconds ago his grin grows.

He is planning something. The red-clad servant hides it well but to someone that lived his entire life with the sword in his hand it becomes painfully obvious. He is planning something, to create an opening, to deliver an attack that will kill him in one blow. To take care of him once and for all.

His scars start to ache from his grin. He can not help it. This guy, above anyone else, he wants to cut him down. To drive his sword into that **body** and splatter his **blood** on the stairs of this **temple**.

His attacks come faster and faster, the blade that is bigger than a man becomes a dark blur. The blade is too fast for even a servant to anticipate its path. It will cleave his enemy apart.

Archers smirk explains it all when he finally sees his chance.

The instant his momentum forces him to show his back to his opponent he realizes Archers plan.

--

Its not even a second, not enough time to mount a counter attack, not even for a servant, but that was never his plan. He jumps away, gains the distance needed to strike the black swordsman down. All he needed was the chance to get out of this Assassins optimal range.

Even before he lands the black bow manifests in his hands, the moment his second foot touches the ground he has a suitable "arrow" in his hands.

It is an arrow one can not hope to avoid, not from this distance, not at the speed the projectile is traveling.

**The Arrow of light strikes true.**

With a terrifying roar the battle ends.

The following explosion swallows the black swordsman, hides him from view, as if granting a last act of mercy by hiding the loser of this battle from view.

The servant of Rin Tohsaka has won. No other servant could survive such a hit.

The sound of metal upon stone proves all expectations wrong.

The strike that should have killed Assassin has only bought him a short break from battle.

The dust settles, revealing an empty staircase.

The dark sword that descends from above gives no warning and only a frantic dodge saves Archer from dying on the spot.

The ground protests at the abuse even as the sword splits it open as it were soft earth.

For a second Archer thinks about continuing this battle.

The black swordsman comes at him again, this time the sword can not be seen anymore. The gigantic lump of iron moves too fast for even the famed eyes of this servant. A howl echoes through the night, he can not say if it comes from his enemy or some kind of animal.

Gathering all his strength, the servant Archer turns and runs.

This battle is over. The horrifying grimace of his opponent proved that. His arrow had hit after all. Yet Assassin still stood, yet he still raged one, his single eye glowing in the darkness with a bloodlust Archer would not have thought possible in a human being.

He has seen a lot, but this unnerves even him.

That thing called Assassin, he snorts at the thought, that thing would have made a perfect Berserker the thinks, will not die tonight.

So he retreats for now.

As he runs through the woods he can hear its howl of fury, the sound of iron cleaving a part stone and wood.

There is no reason to gamble with his life anymore tonight. His prey already escaped.

They will fight again, he is sure of it.

**And next time he will not hold back.**

_Because when fighting against that black swordsman, holding back may just cost him his life._


	3. Chapter 3 Black vs Blue

**Chapter 3**

**Black vs. Blue**

She is watching him.

He can feel her stare, the pointed gaze of the Servant called Caster. The witch responsible for his existence on this world

At least that is what she thinks. He knows better now. He remembers that voice from the time he was drifting through the nothingness.

Loud and strong, a voice full of life if nothing else. There was no emotion in that voice, nothing he would have identified with a human being.

Kind of fitting for something so utterly inhuman as a world.

Strangely the thought of a sentient world did not surprise him as much as he thought it would. If the darkness within humanity could gain a life of its own, why not the world they lived in also?

Why a world of all things wanted him to play hero, he doesn't know. Nor does he care.

He has a body. He survived something that should have killed him. The death of god's hand, the crumbling of that plane, the remnants of hell.

Because his scarred husk of a body can still grasp this sword. As long as the man known as Guts can hold unto his blade he will not die.

This body will refuse to die again and again.

If one can call this regenerating shell he is in a body. His wounds, even though most of his skin had been burned away, are already gone. Not even a slight discomfort remains of the wounds he has received.

That red guy's arrow was painful. Such an extreme attack for someone with an extremely balanced style of moving he notes. It had hurt, a lot in fact. What ever it was that guy had shot at him it had really messed with his body.

After that shot…rage, that is all he can say for sure. As if someone hat flipped a switch his thoughts had fled and left only hatred behind. That and the howl he can still hear in his head if he concentrates enough.

The howl of a beast. A beast he knows all too well.

How ironic that such a thought would let him rest so easily, but really, there is nothing to worry about.

As horrifying as that demon is, he does not fear it.

After all

There is no need to fear your self, is there?

He has no idea for how long he laid waste to the surrounding forest. The only thing he notes with a barely restrained snicker is that a few trees look as if somebody had tried to slice them in two with a strike from below.

Had they been human that would have been painful.

Another snicker.

He remembers doing that to some enemy of his a long time ago.

If that guy survived?

Probably not, people tended to die when they came looking for him. Curiosity killing the damn elf and all that stuff, wasn't that how the saying went?

A quick slash.

With a pained moan the ghostly apparition disappears.

Damn ghosts, they are still after him, even now. He wonders if they can smell the blood of all those evil beings on him.

Well

At least, they are not as many as before, why he might even be able to get a decent night of sleep.

Maybe.

He wouldn't bet on it.

"You beat them."

The woman is back. Her hood is still hiding her face, but he can hazard a guess that she is stunningly beautiful.

The evil ones always are and she does not hide her intentions. To reach her goal she will do whatever she must. She will sacrifice everyone around here to win this war.

That is the kind of person he really hates. Just like Griffith only…there is a difference between them.

So ready to sacrifice just about everything...even the things that don't belong to them anyway.

Still, he has to obey, this body, is tied to her it seems. So he answers her.

"They were weaker than expected, I'd say even you could beat them witch, if you're really lucky."

"Do not underestimate them, it is only by virtue of her weak master that you matched her so easily, Saber is powerful and Archer is…interesting at least."

Is she already thinking of discarding him?

No she won't. She still needs him. That witch still has a use for this black swordsman.

Besides, as much as she praises those two servants, her first impression of her own servant has changed as well.

Assassin is strong, stronger than she would have anticipated, strong enough serve her. For a servant summoned by servant he is surprising. No, even for a normal servant summoned into the class of Assassin, he is far more than she could have hoped for.

"Keep guarding this gate, allow no servant or master to enter the temple through this entrance. Soichiro-sama must be protected."

He snickers at her tone. How such cold-blooded woman's voice can change so fast amuses him to no end.

The moment the name of her master leaves her lips he can already guess she is smiling under that hood of hers. That man is important to her.

He can appreciate that.

As far as that is concerned that witch is the same as him.

She would die for her master, she will kill and kill and kill for that person. She will kill until there is nothing left to kill or till she has no strength left in her body to kill.

He thinks, for that man, the witch known as Medea would willingly drown in a sea of blood that she'd spill just for him.

**Yeah.**

He can definitely appreciate that.

--

Caster is leaving.

It is time for him to follow his orders.

Finally.

Since the battle between Assassin and Saber and later Archer the hero known as Cú Chulainn has been waiting.

Waiting for the right moment.

There is no one to interfere, no one to spoil the purity of what is about to begin.

This is a battle Lancer has been waiting for.

He descends from his place upon a tree, GaeBolg already in his hands.

The black swordsman's gaze is as heavy as he imagined it.

"Finally came out of your hiding spot, eh? Are you done with watching already?"

Lancer's smile is a not just for show. He can appreciate his opponents words.

It's not just mockery.

This man too has been waiting for their battle.

"Yeah, it was kind of entertaining seeing you play around with those two servants. How about you show me the real deal?"

A flash of teeth, both of them are showing of their grin.

"The real deal? If you think that stick of yours won't break, why don't you come and get it."

A flash of death.

Their lust for battle is such that it electrifies the very air between them.

In an instant the battle has began, the sound of steel upon steel echoes through the night.

**Red meets black.**

With a resounding clang the cursed lance meets its counterpart.

Again they clash.

Sparks illuminate the darkness, too fast for the human eye, the two servants attack each other.

Without a doubt, the advantage of speed lies with Lancer, yet, his attacks are parried.

The size and the power of his enemy's blade stops his cursed lance from hitting its target again and again.

Every time Assassins sword strikes at his lance he feels the strain placed upon it. The strength behind those savage blows is incredible as is the skill they are used with.

Lancers grin nearly splits his face in two.

He knew this was going to be good, just not that good.

This is the kind of opponent he is grateful for.

Really, against this kind of servant...

He wants to cut loose and fight with all the strength he has.

If only that damned command spell would not stop him from showing his opponent how much this means to him.

Still, fighting any more would be useless. This guy is too skilled to reveal his Noble Phantasm. No he would need to unleash **GaeBolg** against that guy to force out his Noble Phantasm, he can tell that much from what he already saw.

Maybe next time.

He disappears from sight. Such is his speed that even his opponent loses sight of him for an instant.

"Not bad for an Assassin, but I think I'll call it a day, you look as if you could really use your beauty sleep, Assassin."

_Light banter._

The battle is over, there is no need for hard words now.

The fought against each other with naked steel. As far as Cú Chulainn is concerned they are as good as friends.

This is what it means to face each other in battle to this servant. A Battle to the death is after all a thing of savage beauty, pulsing with life and the need to win more than anything else.

Lancer is thankful for every opponent he can truly fight with.

He is gone before the black swordsman can answer. He leaves the temple stairs behind him.

It only takes him a few minutes to get to the edge of the forest.

It's too bad, he would have really liked to fight some more with that guy.

"Where do you think you're running to? We're not done yet, are we? I think I was just about to break that little lance of yours."

The words reach him from behind, his surprise is evident on his face even as he turns around to face his enemy.

This servant can not be here.

He should not be able to leave that place at all.

Yet the dark form of Assassin walks in from the shadows, his face hidden in the blackness of the night, only his eye is visible.

"Think you can just run away like that?"

This time the words are pure mockery.

**"You?!"**

In and instant the red lance appears in Lancers hands again.

The blue-clad servant starts to chuckle lightly.

"Heh, I don't know how it is that you can leave that place but….thank you."

His words are sincere.

He is truly thankful.

This will be their second battle.

There is nothing stopping him from going all out anymore.

"So…why don't we just stop holding back and get at it?"

His answer is the same horrifying grin Assassin has shown before and Lancer matches his expression.

Weapons raised, they wait but for the right moment.

This battle will be the most rewarding yet because…

There is something both understand in the same moment.

**Steel meets Steel.**

_Battle is their home._


	4. Chapter 4 Battles End

**Chapter 4**

**Black vs. Blue – Battles End**

Nothing has changed.

He has not changed.

Even after all those years, the only thing he is able to do is swinging that sword around.

He has not changed at all.

But

Right here, right now, there is nothing for him to protect.

Nothing but his own life.

Against that cursed red lance which tries to pierce his body again and again.

So he can fight without regrets. There is no better use for his sword after all than in battle. To slice his foes apart. To cleave his enemies in two.

To Kill.

Lancer is strong. In the days of his youth that servants head would have been worth several gold pieces at least he thinks.

He understands enough about the war he is participating in to know that his opponent must have been a great hero before his death.

Did he fight to protect someone or did he fight for his own glory?

Most importantly, does it matter in the end?

As long as this fight lasts the most important thing is survival. Winner takes all. That is the only rule.

Those who lose will simply fade away, just another name on a long list of victims of the victor.

He does not want to fade away. Not as long as his enemy still breathes.

After decades of war he knows that surviving and killing are the two things he is most talented in.

So he swings that big lump of iron without thought, there is no need to think too deeply about this after all.

It is always the same thing since the day he was born on the fields of battle.

He has not changed at all.

Whatever

_He can live with that._

--

Lancers arms are shaking.

It is as he had thought.

That sword is as monstrous as its owner. The strength behind those blows is enough to make him wince every time he is forced to deflect one.

He is being pushed back. Slowly but surely he is losing ground to Assassin.

A difference in skill.

That is all it is. His opponent's skill with his chosen weapon is higher than his own. Assassins strength is greater than his own.

So why can't he stop smiling?

Because this is exactly what he wanted.

This is what he craved, this is what he dreamed of when he made his pact with the world.

A battle to push him to his limits.

A battle to end all battles. With this, everything that he was forced to do up till now became worthwhile.

The sound of screeching steel echoes through the darkness.

Once again the lance's tip is pushed aside, missing its target.

Again the giant blade slashes apart only empty air.

Even though he is being pushed back Lancer is far from helpless.

Defense is his specialty after all.

As long as he stands firm no sword can touch him. The red lance blurs into a web of red steel.

Not even a blade like the Dragon Slayer can cut through his last line of defense.

Yet

He can not hope to win like this.

He is giving up the initiative, he is losing control of this battle and with every blow he is forced to deflect he is losing strength.

His course becomes clear.

It takes less than a second for him to gain the distance he needs.

Gae Bolg is starting to shake in his hands. The times of release is near, the cursed lance longs for a target.

A grim smile.

The blue clad servant crouches down.

For a moment the amount of magical energy filling the battle field freezes even the Black Swordsman.

Then Lancer is airborne, the cursed lance grasped in his hand he flies through the cold night.

The change from total defense to absolute offense took him only a single second.

**"GAE"**

This is the end.

Whatever happens, this battle will be over.

**"BOLG"**

The lance flies from his hands, for but a moment it is hidden from sight by the magical energy that surrounds it.

The giant sword comes down, planting it's tip in the earth.

With a roar of displaced air the black swordsman disappears in a torrent of magical energy.

The strength of Gae Bolg.

The Spear of Striking Death Flight

Touching the ground Lancer waits.

There is nothing left for him to do. There is nothing he can do.

His strength is spent. This glorious battle took its toll upon him.

He has full confidence in his Noble Phantasm, but that servant…from the beginning of this battle it was clear that there was no guaranty for victory.

With a gasp the blackened shape of his enemy steps forward.

No, he is holding himself up by his sword.

Assassin survived Gae Bolg but….

But the prize he paid is a terrible one.

The entire left side of his body is simply gone.

The mechanical arm together with his handcannon is no more, torn apart from the shoulder downwards, the left leg is a torn mess of burned flesh and there is a big hole on the left side of his torso that is leaking out large quantities of blood.

His single eye remains but blood is running down is face, making it even more frightening.

It is a wonder that he can still stand.

No, it is a wonder that he has not died yet but those wounds will kill him soon enough.

Something moves.

Lancers eyes track the movement.

Something on Assassins back is moving. For a second Cu Cullainn can clearly see the outline of something that looks like dog coiling itself around the black swordsman.

With a loud noise the something from assassins back covers his entire face.

Blood spurts out of his armor.

The scream that follows is one of murderous fury.

He should not be able to move.

He should be dead.

So why is it that this Servant is coming at him, swinging that giant sword of his as if nothing happened?

**'The armor, his noble phantasm is his armor."**

The realization comes too late.

He wants to dodge, to deflect, to do something at least but he can not.

His strength is spent.

He has lost.

With a sickening sound the sword cuts him open from his shoulder down to his hip.

A fatal blow.

Even as he falls Lancer takes a look at his enemy one more time.

No, that guy does not feel like an assassin at all.

Berserker class would fit that guy perfectly.

Still there is something he has to say to his crazed opponent.

"Hey, not bad slowpoke, how about we meet again in the next grail war!"

He is fading fast now but that is okay. He gained what he wished for. Dying for such a battle, that's okay with Lancer.

It was his wish after all.

--

His enemy is gone.

The armor has left him even weaker than before.

And he is dying.

Again.

He wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all but right now it hurts to even breathe.

This is pathetic.

He can't even raise his goddamn sword. He can't even move anything below his neck.

His wounds are serious.

Fatal even.

He knows he is dying. He can feel himself growing cold by the second.

"How can this shit get any worse ?"

**"Sacrifice. Sacrifice. Sacrifice. Sacrifice.** _Die for us._** Sacrifice. Sacrifice. Sacrifice. Sacrifice."**

"That's a good answer."

God must really hate him for killing his angels.

He is dying in a pool of his own blood and those fucking spirits still come after him.

But damn it all he wants to live.

He wants to continue swinging that sword around like an idiot that does not know anything else.

"Get the **HELL** away from me you freaks."

A single one closes in on him. It advances slowly, coming closer and closer to his head.

If only he could move his hand, If only he could move anything but his head, if only…

Realization sets in.

The moment the spirit comes close enough he acts.

His head moves like snake.

His teeth close around the ghost.

With a soft moan it dies.

It feels as if someone had thrown a bucket of cold water unto him. Icy cold and slick like oil.

Whatever it is he can feel it race through his body. Right into the wound on his torso.

The pain lessens.

His mouth twists into a grin.

"Well, looks like you guys have some use after all."

They are closing in on him now.

"Come on you freaks,** Dinner is served.**"

_Death will not come for him tonight._


	5. Chapter 5 Melody of Madness

**Chapter 5**

**Melody of Madness**

„I see"

She is lying

It doesn't work that way.

It isn't supposed to work like that at all.

For a servant summoned by a servant it should be impossible to leave the place he is bound to.

It is the magical energy of this temple that sustains him after all.

It is the power of this holy ground, filled by the energy of the towns ley-lines that allows him to stay in this war.

Yet

He was able to leave his place.

Left it to hunt and kill the servant Lancer. A servant class well known for their speed and prowess. And then…

He regenerated wounds that should have been fatal even for a servant.

No, regenerated was the wrong word. He reformed himself. His arm was a mechanical construct, not something that can just regenerate like that.

The only thing she can say for sure is that the aura of death around him has grown even stronger.

She hates to admit it but she doesn't get him at all. She doesn't understand how he can be as strong as he is. He is not even a real hero, or at least that is what she thinks.

Because there is no hero that she knows of that would fit his description.

Not that it matters.

He serves her well, which is the truly important thing as far as she is concerned.

With his strength at her disposal she can rest assured that not even the mightiest of heroes will be able to stop her that easily.

That cursed blade he wields with such monstrous strength will stop all opposition in their tracks.

But the time has come to use Assassin the way he was supposed to be used.

"Well done Assassin, hear my next order then, at the edge of this town there is a large forest…"

--

The forest is larger than expected.

He has been walking for a as long as an hour now, yet the castle is still not in sight.

15 Minutes

That's his best estimate.

15 minutes, that's all the time Berserker's master has left.

"Heh, hunting nobles again, god this feels nostalgic."

This is not an attack upon Berserker.

Casters orders were clear on that matter.

This was supposed to be an assassination.

**Infiltrate.**

**Kill.**

**Escape.**

No, sweat, he could do that but….

He knew his own luck well enough.

The chance that this would go over smoothly was about as high as the chance for a sudden attack by blue flying pigs.

Apostle pigs.

"Sounds like something the church would call a miracle, Flying pigs."

He snickers ruefully.

He knows more than enough about miracles to understand one thing.

Nothing good can come out of god's help.

--

"Go kill him Berserk!"

Her young voice commands his death in a far too chilling tone for a child of her age.

A sentence of death.

'Not like it is the first time some kid tries to kill me."

He won't go down that easily.

Not today, but Berserker disagrees, loudly too.

It is less of a battlecry and more of a roar.

No man should sound like that. That sound reminds Guts of himself far too much.

The hero before him feels more like beast than a man and his attack is delivered with the speed of a true predator.

The giant attacks, swinging his sword around wildly he charges.

Too fast. Way too fast.

Someone that large should not be able to move this fast. Well, neither should Assassin.

The sword hits the floor.

Stone meets stone with a sound that hurts his ears even as the floor shatters.

There is no hesitation or even a moments pause, Berserker's sword raises again.

Like a coiled snake the blade forged out of iron jumps up to meet the enemy blade.

A pained grunt.

Testing Berserker's strength was not one of his brightest ideas but it confirmed Assassins guess.

Way too strong to get into a slugging match with him.

Another roar.

Under the watchful gaze of his master Heracles swings his crude stone sword as if it weighted nothing.

Slowly but surely the hallway crumbles under the assault of the two giant swords.

Debris fill the floor.

Yet

The do not stop.

The difference is easy to see even for someone with no battle experience like Ilya.

One seeks a hole in his enemies defense.

The other seeks only to crush his enemy.

This battle is nothing like the one against Lancer.

**Savage**

**Brutal**

**Mindless**

Perfect words to describe this battle as well as Berserker himself.

His plan of action has been decided, he will end the fight in one blow.

Assassin charges.

The Dragonslayer thrusts forwards, a simple attack. Easy to counter.

Berserker's blade nearly tears the swords out oh his hands when it hits, forcing his body to rotate.

A cruel smile blooms on Assassin's face.

He twists, even as his muscles scream at the abuse they are put through, liquid fire runs through his veins, burns his arms and makes him grit his teet and his blade moves…

Almost as if it were eager for the divine blood it is presented with the sword cuts through the air.

Momentum gives strength.

The sword of stone can not stop this strike.

The blow nearly cuts the giant in half.

Blood spurts out, yet, Berserker does not falter. His hands raise.

A fist punches into the wound eliciting a low groan but Guts is not done yet.

Again the sickening smile on Assassins face spells out only doom for his opponent.

The hand a cannon goes off as planned with a horrifying sound, blasting straight through Berserker's upper back.

Such an attack is enough to kill even this monster.

"Looks likes this is over."

A moment of triumph.

Two hands grasp Assassins head.

The unholy glow in berserker's eyes grows even stronger as his grip on assassins head tightens.

"Killing Berserker's once or twice won't do you any good. Now be a good boy and die."

Her childish voice adds another layer of absurdity to this scene.

Yet…

Before his astonished eyes Berserker is healing, the wound that should have killed him is already fading away.

Guts head feels like it is going to explode any moment now.

"If..i…'_gasp_'…If once ain't enough then I will just kill him a hundred times over, that ought to do it."

His voice is strained. The pain is starting to become unbearable.

For a second his hand disappears in the folds of his clothes.

A glitter of steel.

The little bombs explode into Berserker's face.

A terrible roar.

One hand let's go but it is no respite.

The fist hit's him like the fury of an angry god and makes him puke.

A sharp pain makes itself noticable when he breathes in.

'Damn, there goes a rib….or two."

Before another blow can land his foot kicks upwards, his steel clad feet crushing enhanced flesh and bone.

This time Berserker's simply throws him away.

Through the entire hallway, from the base of the stairs to the entrance.

A moment of peace, as he glides through the air.

The landing is a bit more painful.

He rolls a few metres, kicking up dust and debris, leaving behind a trail of blood before he comes to a stop.

Groaning he raises himself on all fours.

His sword is too far for him to get it, his vision is fading and Berserker's next attack will cleave him in two.

He tries to stand up but his strength is not enough and he falls down and winces again.

That damn rib is starting to really piss him off.

With a terrible roar Berserker attacks.

That sword made of stone descends.

He won't be able to stop it.

He can't even see it.

All he sees is blackness.

**Blackness.**

And the demons that have hunted him since his birth.

The change happens in an instant.

The black swordsman disappears and in his place is a thing born out of hate.

The sword has stopped.

**No.**

It was forced to a stop.

A single armoured hand grasps the edge of the blade tightly.

Even on all fours, close to death, the blade of certain death was stopped.

Berserker's arm strains itself.

The blade moves.

_Slowly._

Assassins head snaps upwards, the demonic faceplate of his helmet hides his face from scrutiny.

Another roar.

**Hatred **_and_** Rage.**

**Fury** _and_** Madness.**

The black fist tightens.

With a sharp cracking sound the stone sword's tip crumbles beneath Assassins fingers.

There is no hesitation from either of them.

Assassins charges right away, moving so fast his body becomes a blur for a moment.

Berserker's broken sword falls to the ground as the giant swings his bare fist at the incoming human projectile.

A seconds difference is all that it takes.

Assassin has already closed in.

The armoured knuckles break Berserker's nose even as the giant's fist breaks another couple of ribs in retaliation.

Their weapons are forgotten.

To kill their enemy, that is the only thing that matters now, nothing else is left in their minds.

Berserker's leg kicks out.

_Too slow._

Assassin jumps over it and attacks.

With a terrible scream Berserker loses his left eye.

Heracles fury raises even more. A quick grab catches his enemy before he can get out of range.

His hands hold Assassin in place.

**Divine Flesh** _meets_ **Cursed Steel.**

The cursed steel bends inwards from the strength of Berserker's headbutt.

Their faces are only inches away from each other.

Their screams or rage fill the entire castle.

A wonderful duet of madness.

Dodging downwards Assassins hand finds a familiar weight.

The swords touch is enough.

Even through the haze of madness from his Berserker Armor his plan is realized.

Assassin moves away. From one end of the hallway to the other in a moments notice.

The second hand finds what it sought.

The broken stone sword is lifted.

For a moment a terrible silence fills the hall.

Then…

Berserker charges again.

Without a weapon Heracles rushes onwards.

Fear is unknown to him.

In the end there is only one thing left for him to do.

He is Berserker after all.

The two giant swords await their victim silently.

Ilya starts running the second Berserker charges.

The moment Assassin has both swords in his hands; a feeling of terror fills her, freezing her entire body for a moment.

Only one thing remains in her mind as she runs onwards.

**"A HUNDRED TIMES!"**

A howl.

Beast against Beast.

A last roar of primal fury.

Then the two swords are within reach.

Assassin disappears from sight.

Blood flies everywhere.

And Berserker dies.

**Once.**

**Twice.**

**Thrice.**

Again and again he is torn apart by the black dervish that dances around him.

Torn apart by the cursed blade of his enemy and his own crude blade made of stone.

There is no end to the slaughter.

Twelve Lifes are gone.

Yet Assassin does not stop.

The swords do not stop.

And Ilya is still running.

Her Berserker is dying.

The moment she reaches him the black blade comes for the last strikes.

Her arms close around her servants leg.

The blade descends.

Blood soaks her entire body.

A strand of hair falls to the ground.

Berserker's remains fall to the floor.

Only the lower body is left standing as the little girl is still clinging to it.

An inch lower and she would have been hit and died instantly.

Assassin falls to the floor.

The rage is gone.

He looks at the girl.

She is still in shock.

Killing her now is easy.

Suddenly her eyes lock with his.

"Berserker is gone."

Her voice is soft. Painfully so.

"Yeah."

"Berserker was really strong. He was going to protect me from everyone."

He can't tell if she is crying under all that blood or not.

"Berserker is really strong. He is the strongest servant of all, right?"

"He was strong."

She smiles, under all that blood, still clinging to the fading remains of her servant the little girl smiles.

A hollow smile.

"Yup, that's my Berserker, he's the strongest."

The moment the words leave her lips she is already falling.

Right into Assassins lap.

He looks down.

Her face is smeared with blood.

Like the son of that noble guy he killed back then with Griffith.

Like those fake elf children.

Like those kids, that had been barely old enough to leave their home, he had fought in the war.

He looks at her face again.

"I'm sick of killing children."

He brushes a bit of her hair away.

A gentle touch.

Not something he would expect from himself.

His lips twitch.

He does it again. Brushing her hair away.

This time he can't stop himself.

He starts laughing.

Like a madmen he starts to laugh.

Damn it all if it isn't the truth.

_He is sick of killing children._


	6. Chapter 6 Dream of Peace

**Chapter 6**

**Dream of Peace**

„What a waste. Why did we have to come to this dump anyway?"

The boy's voice is starting to...irritate him.

A lot.

Why did this lowborn mongrel feel the need to whine and moan like some kind of whore all the time? That man, no, that boy was not fit to be a master. Most certainly not of a servant like Gilgamesh

By the hells, he wouldn't wish this annoying waste of breath on that damn red-coated faker.

His first servant most likely killed herself to get away from the brat. Hearing that whiny voice all day must have made the woman even weaker than she had already been.

Still, seeing his "masters" look he decides to answer the fool.

It wasn't the brat's fault if he could not be as intelligent as Gilgamesh. Such was the difference between a lowly commoner like Shinji and the king of kings, but it would be problematic if the boy kept on pestering him anymore.

He might just end his pitiful existence if he opened his sissy little mouth even one more time.

As such it falls to him to enlighten his idiot of a master.

Turning around the golden haired servant stares at his master for a second, making him fidget a little.

"Something important was supposed to be here, master, besides I thought you would be happy if we killed one of your enemies. One less foe for you to worry about, right?

But the Grail is not here.

There has been a battle, that is a given, he would have to be blind to not notice it.

Debris are everywhere, a residue of magical energy still fills the castle and the blood...

It is everywhere. It looks like the entire hallway is painted in red. The crimson stains cover every wall, the entire floor, even the ceiling has some dark blotches on it.

It does have a kind of style though. It reminds him of a painting he had sometime ago. The different shades of red mix together nicely and the white marble makes for a nice contrast.

**But the grail is not here.**

Someone must have defeated Berserker before him and taken the grail with them. There were no traces of the girl, though he couldn't be sure just whose blood had been spilled all around him.

Such a bother, he had told that fool priest relying on the Einzbern's grail was idiotic, but alas, Kotomine lacked Gilgamesh's understanding of the battlefield and the tactics one employed on it.

So now he has to improvise.

He will need a magus first. Someone expendable.

"Man, why do I always get saddled with useless servants. I want to go back, it's cold here and obviously what you sought is not here anymore. Let's go, Archer."

He can't help it.

Gilgamesh, the king of heroes, twitches.

Slowly his face morphs into a pained grimace and a manic glint appears in his eyes as he continues to look at his master.

"Well, well, well, it looks as if you actually have a use now master. How fortunate that even a **mongrel** like you has a reason for existance."

A moment of silence envelopes them as the boy realized what his "servant" has said to him.

His face flushes.

Shinji's stunned expression gives way to rage.

Arrogance and fear, mixed with false bravado.

"WHAT? What are you talking about you idiot? I'm your master, Kotomine gave you to me. Show me proper respect like the servant you are."

Taking a step forward the young man tries to assert himself.

A flash of light.

The first blade pins his hand against the wall before he can react.

**THUCK.**

**THUCK.**

**THUCK.**

The moment the first scream leaves his lips his other hand and his legs are pinned to the wall as well.

The scream is shrill. And short.

The boy starts to chock. The pain he feels is still numbed, but with every passing moment his mind realises just how much damage his body has taken.

Blood drips down from the blades, Shinji can't help but watch as the blood falls unto the floor.

That is his blood.

**His blood.**

Falling to the floor.

His stomach rebels. He starts to heave but even that slight movement brings him new heights of pain.

He pukes, pinned to the wall as he is, he pukes his guts out and every time his body spasms the blades in his hands and legs cut even deeper into his flesh.

All the while the golden-clad servant still stares at him with those unblinking red-eyes.

His lips quirk.

"I must admit, I did not think it would be this satisfying, but I'm feeling more and more generous for every second I** see you suffer**, mongrel."

The boy doesn't answer.

He can't answer. His lips move but no sound comes out.

His whole body is shaking now. Fear and pain fill his entire being, robbing him of any strength he may have had left.

A puddle is forming under him, his own blood is soaking his clothes as he hangs there.

"Well, seeing how your pain amuses me so, I will grant you some mercy and I know exactly how. Let me teach you about your place in the world, **_"master"_**.

The boy starts to shiver at those words.

When he sees the swords appear behind his servant an uncomfortable warm and wet feeling descends down his pants.

It takes him a second to realise that he pissed himself.

After being crucified he didn't think he could scream anymore.

He was wrong.

--

"Umm, rice?"

He isn't nervous.

Not at all.

After all, there is no reason for Shirou Emiya to be nervous just because in front of him sits the black swordsman that fought Saber to a standstill. Right next to the former master of Berserker.

Right.

No need to be nervous.

Tohsaka feels the same way if he judges her fidgeting movements and worried glances right.

So he simply brings another bowl of rice for his guest. Uninvited guest, that is. Uninvited guest who has forced his way into his home with his sword and a presence that scares the shit out of Shirou.

And the way Ilya is tearing into her bowl makes this a pretty surreal experience.

On the other hand, her presence here without Berserker is bad news. The crude stone blade Assassin has carried with him spoke volumes.

If Assassin has killed Berserker then Caster has just about won the grail war.

Not that the black swordsman seems inclined to kill them or bring them to the temple. In fact he looks quite content with eating his fill.

Rallying his courage Shirou addresses him again.

"So...what are you doing here?"

The single eye gazes at him. A smile forms.

Shirou swallows and tries not to show his discomfort.

That guy... is creepy.

"I guess I should kill you guys before you become a problem, that's what you do with servant-less masters right?"

The man's voice sounds almost amused. As if this is some kind of joke. As if playing with their minds and lives is just some big joke to him.

A young voice interrupts before Shirou can explode.

"He's going to protect me."

All eyes are on Ilya now. Her face remains impassive.

"Protect you? Remember me killing your servant not that long ago, why shouldn't I finish the job?"

Puzzlement. Guts can't say what that girl is thinking, making such a bold claim.

The young girl glares at him for a moment before she jumps up and points her finger in to his face.

"You killed my Berserker, that means you owe me big time. So you'll have to protect me."

Silence then...

Laughter.

The black swordsman is laughing. He is laughing so hard can't even sit straight anymore.

Shirou glances at Ilya.

Her face is red and she has pulled her hand back. Yet, she is standing her ground. That girl...is totally convinced of the truth in her statement.

Assassin stops laughing and glances at her with his eye.

Again that frightening smile blooms on his face.

"Girl, that sword of mine is made for killing, not protecting."

His answer is short but there is kind of undercurrent none of the three masters understands.

"So? Just swing that big sword of yours around like an idiot and I'll be safe, right? I'll trust you to keep me alive then."

His eye opens wide for a moment.

His imagination is making a fool out of him.

It has to be because...for a moment he sees his little witch instead of the young girl in front of him. These words.

She had said something like that as well, tears in her eyes and clinging to his beaten and bruised body and she had done just as she had said. She had trusted him and in turn kept him from losing it completely to the rage inside of himself.

And he had kept her safe, kept them all safe, fighting like a man possessed.

Right till the moment she had sent him to his last battle.

Shaking his head he pushes those thoughts away. No time for daydreams right now. He has a war to fight after all. He can worry about returning later.

"Trust me, eh? Well, I guess that's a good enough reason after all."

That said he continues to eat.

Ilya continues to stand for a second before she smiles, let's herself fall into her seat and tears into her own bowl of rice again.

Everything has been taken care of.

Trading glances with shrugging Rin, Shirou Emiya suddenly feels a headache coming.

Still they needed a servant to take care of Archer to get Saber back.

Glancing at the eating Assassin, Shirou nods to himself.

_This might work after all._


	7. Chapter 7 King's Battle

**Chapter 7**

**King's Battle**

They do not look impressive.

Three servant-less masters and a lone servant.

They do not look impressive at all.

Still, they have a plan and are ready to carry it out.

Guts stops without warning, even though they are not that far away from the church now. His face morphs once more into that disturbing grin of his. "Looks like someone is waiting for us."

Rin stiffens. If someone is watching them from this distance she knows who it must be. "Archer." Her voice is an odd mix of anger and shame when she breathes out the name of her former servant. Betrayal always hurts the most after all.

He can see him, that white-haired servant. He can see his hawk-like gaze, see the bow in his hands and the words that leave Archers lips. Assassin rests the sword on his shoulder and smiles. The message is clear, there is no mistaking his intention.

"So...you won't let me make another step, won't you? Let's see about that, bastard."

Turning around he motions for them to go on.

"Looks like this is going to be fun." He really is itching for a fight now. Those guys, Lancer, Berserker and now Archer, he really can't help it, he wants to fight against more warriors like that.

"That guy..." Rin's voice is hesitant, her eyes betray her discomfort with whatever she wants to talk about. He can guess what she wants though.

"I'll leave him alive so you can kick him when you get back...that what you want?

His answer is a grateful nod and a mumbled thanks, kind of cute he notes, now that he thinks about it, but he has something else to take care of now. Facing his far away enemy once more he takes a single step forward, swinging his sword the moment his foot leaves the ground.

A low whistle is the only warning they have before Archer's arrow hits the Dragonslayer, bathing the whole area in a red hue.

Another step

Again arrow and sword clash.

This time Guts does not turn around when he speaks.

"Well, get going, I'll take care of that guy."

A cute voice interrupts, her angry tone speaks volumes.

"Don't you dare and die against Archer, do you hear me Assassin?"

Another arrow hits. For a moment the explosion drowns out their voices as the three magi run to the church, still even then the young girl hears his voice.

"Yeah yeah, I'll just keep on swinging that sword around like the idiot I am, happy now princess?"

Without a doubt he knows that she couldn't have heard him but...for a moment he thinks he can see her smile and nod.

It has been a while since someone has been waiting for him to return...it's a nice feeling. Nearly as nice as squashing his enemies like flies.

Nearly

Smirking he slashes at another arrow, the shockwave numbs his arm for a moment, telling him that he needs to adjust his grip. Then a moment of peace as another arrow is prepared.

Guts starts to sprint. He hates long-range fighting. Of course...his Dragonslayer might count as long-range, being as tall as some people he knew and taller than some of the people he had protected.

Still the next attack does not come, another moment goes by...

The moment he sees them, he raises his sword up, five arrows, all coming at him at the same time. A perfectly timed attack, speed, precision and power are beyond anything a normal person could ever hope to achieve.

His single eye shines with a light of its own as the arrows close in on him. His arm starts to blur and the massive blade in his hand disappears from sight, Lancer was not the only one capable of a strong defence. This time the explosion swallows the still running servant for a moment, singing his clothes and hair as he runs through it.

He won't stop now.

But Archer continues to shoot at him, letting him push onwards just like that and giving no indication that he cares about the three magi sneaking about at all. This has the smelling of a trap all over it, but traps can be reversed and used on their masters.

Another shot.

And another

Again and again he strikes the arrows down before he finally reaches the still smug-looking Archer. The white-haired servant releases his bow and two swords appear in his hands. The same swords he used last time. Does he want to fight in close-combat again?

Then..._DODGE_

Reacting on instinct, both, Archer and Guts, evade the swords that now pierce the ground where they had stood mere moments before. The source of the swords is hidden behind a tree for a moment, before the servant comes forward.

Slowly Gilgamesh's golden-clad figure walks up to them, clapping slowly, mocking them with both his actions and his words.

"Well, well, what do we have here? A faker and a thief fighting each other, how absolutely fitting, filth should take care of filth after all."

Guts tightens the grip on his swords in anticipation. This guy is a servant, no doubt about that, how that works he has no idea, he thought there was some kind of limit for servants, but it doesn't matter now. If that guy is a servant that means it's time to kill someone.

He's all for that.

Archer jumps back, a tactical retreat for now. Letting Gilgamesh deal with Assassin would make it a lot easier for him after all.

Setting his eyes on Guts, the king of kings snorts disdainful.

"You have something that belongs to me thief, won't you return it to me before I take your life as punishment for your theft?"

Guts eyebrow rises slowly. His grin becomes mocking. This kind of guy, clad in gold, arrogant to a fault, that's the kind of guy he hates the most.

"Did you say something? Can't hear shit, with the whole size difference, so why don't you say that again midget?"

"Hmm, the mongrel thinks to insult me...how deeply pathetic, filth like you should at least know its place."

Guts only smirks. Frightening...as always. The Dragonslayer rests easily in his hand, it is even lighter than before. Maybe he's going crazy but...no, without a doubt, this sword wants to kill that golden bastard. It wants to tear him open like a piece of fresh meat and make him bleed, spill that divine blood all over the floor. That's good he muses. He wants to kill him too.

Without waiting for another barb he charges at Gilgamesh.

His answer is a hail of blades. They are faster than an arrow, faster than one would think it is possible for a sword to fly. Those swords are noble phantasm, ever single on of them.

The finest of blades ever created.

They tear, they shatter, they break. What they face is no ordinary sword. It is too big, too rough and too cumbersome to be called a sword. It is a big lump of iron. Forged in Hate.

Baptized in blood. Cursed by god.

This sword called Dragonslayer, can not be broken by just the finest of blades.

"A strange blade for a mongrel, but a blade like that without a history behind it can not touch me."

"History, Man, weird guys like you really creep me out. If you want a history that badly, I'll carve it into you with this sword."

"Hmmm, carve into me, such impudence, a lowlife like you will not be able to hit me even once."

Ten steps

That's all the distance between them. Ten little steps. Ten steps opposed by a hundred swords.

Red light fills the battlefield.

Gilgamesh reacts immediately the moment he turns around and sees Archer's arrow aimed at his heart. This attack, a direct hit would prove fatal, but the treasures of the king of kings are many and all of them have a purpose in the end.

Before the arrow can hit a flower blooms. Blue petals, like a shield they arise between the deadly arrow and his target, 4 of them, beautiful and strong, the perfect defence against an attack like this.

The shield that would one day create the legend of Rho Aias.

It is not enough.

They force behind Archer's attack is too great. The original it may be...but it lacks the strength of its successor.

Petal after petal shatters, like flowers in the wind.

The explosion envelopes both of them, Gilgamesh and Guts. When the harsh light subsides, the king of heroes is still standing, but his armour is blackened and his hair slightly singed.

His glare is fierce as he stares at Archer's smug face. The red-clad servant opens his mouth but Gilgamesh can not hear him.

All he hears is the sound of air being cut behind him as the Dragonslayer descends, all he sees when he twists his head is the terrifying grin Guts wears as he comes into range.

And with a terrible sound the sword cuts off his left arm, slicing through steel, flesh and bone.

**Shock**

_Blood flows_

**Rage**

_Pain grows_

**HATE**

Gilgamesh's face twists, with a snarl on his lips he snaps the fingers on his remaining right hand.

Enkidu heeds its master's call.

Before the black swordsman can even raise his sword from the first strike he is bound by the chain of heaven. To bind those of divine blood, that is Enkidu's purpose. Someone like Guts should not be stopped by it. But blood can not be denied.

Not by those born in it, nor by those stained with it.

With a sickening crunch Enkidu encircles him even tighter, the level of divine blood on him is enormous. His armour has become a death trap. Yet, even when the chain binds him harder and harder, the Dragonslayer will not be denied.

Sparks fly and smoke rises where the chain touches the sword. Not matter what, this sword will not be denied.

Gilgamesh glares at his bound captive before he speaks.

"A sword cursed by the gods themselves. A fitting weapon for a beast like yourself, but now it is time to put you down."

Another snip.

This time there is no escape for the black swordsman, the chain of heaven binds him even as a dozen Noble Phantasms pierce his body. On the floor the blood of the king and the warrior mix together. The force of the Weapons striking him throws him back, together with the chains straining to hold him in place.

Bound as he is Assassin does not rise, but the king of heroes makes no idle threats. This man's life is his, his wrteched existence, Gilgamesh will snuff it out.

His hand raises, his fingers twitch, then...

Archer

Feeling the red-clad servants presence Gilgamesh turns around.

The faker stands there smiling. No, not simply smiling, he is downright smirking.

"What do you find so amusing, faker? Does the death of your enemy bring you happiness? Foolish mongrel, you will meet him again soon enough. None of you are a match for me."

Archer's lips move, yet, no sound can be heard.

An annoyance, Gilgamesh glares, those mongrels are starting to anger him.

"Has the futility of your existence driven you speechless, faker? Speak up if you dare."

Yes, Archer is definitely smirking now.

And this time his words are loud and clear.

"So as I pray,** Unlimited Blade Works**."

--

The moment the world shifts a storm of steel descends upon Archer. Blade after blade comes down upon him, comes down and is reflected by what seems to be a mirror image of itself.

Glaring at his enemy Gilgamesh stares at the twisted reality around him.

"A reality marble, so that is your power? That is all you bring forth to defeat the king of heroes? Do you think this will allow you to break even one of my weapons?"

„You say they are your weapons King of Heroes, but up till now, all you have done is shoot them at me like arrows. Those blades you claim as your own, do you even how to use them?"

Anger. Gilgamesh is feeling anger, for the first time in a long while he is really starting to get pissed. This damn faker is beginning to annoy him, extremely so.

"Your pathetic magic can't hope to overcome me, mongrel, know your place."

Again swords clash, like arrows they shoot through the air, but this time Gilgamesh is on the defence. The red-clad servant is overwhelming him.

Then he charges, ducking low Archer uses his own swords as cover to close in on Gilgamesh, swinging his twin swords at his enemy. One is deflected, the second hits true, sending the king of heroes to the ground. A strong blow to an already weakened opponent.

Jumping backwards Archer readies even more swords, his intent to end the battle with the next attack is clear for everyone to see. Smirking he addresses Gilgamesh one more time.

"This is no mere magic, it is a promise for victory King of Kings. Right here, right now, all you treasures will not avail you. Now, fade away, just like the memory of your precious Uruk."

Staggering, the golden-armoured servant raises up to his knees. Blood is dripping from his lips and he is obviously in great pain. His wounds are severe yet, he does not show any fear. He clenches his right fist, hard enough to draw blood, gritting his teeth and with a sudden movement he glares at his enemy with hate shining through his eyes.

"You speak of my death so easily mongrel, even though nothing is over yet."

Standing up Gilgamesh stares at his enemy. His red eyes are alight with madness and anger, reflecting the fires of this world. This is not the displeasure of a king but the rage of man.

"Do you even understand who you are speaking to, you faker?"

He takes a single staggering step forward, leaving behind a bloody footprint as his foot leaves the ground.

His eyes narrow as he moves his body, his remaining arm that had held his torso, now tightened into a fist again and shaking with barely suppressed rage.

**"It is by the memory of my deeds that heroes are defined."**

With a sneer the king of kings raises his remaining hand and snaps his fingers.

**"It is my name that calls forth thoughts of vast fortunes and fame."**

A king's order.

**"I am Gilgamesh."**

And reality obeys. Rippling like a pond hit by a stone it opens and from the depths of his vaults, the king's fortune appears.

**"I AM LEGEND"**

Without end, weapon after weapon, called from the deepest part of Uruk's treasuries, they take their place behind their master. More and more appear. Some full of decorations others without any splendour at all. It is a fitting army for the one who possesses the Golden Rule.

Yet, even now the golden-haired servant does not smile nor smirk. There is nothing left for him to smile about. He has let this go on for long enough.

The thought of allowing this mongrel even one more victory, one more copy, sickens him to the core.

He will put an end to this mockery of a battle. Now.

With a flash of red light the instrument of his enemy's destruction appears in his hands.

**Ea**

The sword is old. Old and nameless, yet he calls it simply Ea. It is older than any other weapon he owns and more powerful than any weapon that has since been created. A blade fitting for a king he thinks.

Grabbing the handle he balefully glares at Archer. The white-haired servant has made no move to stop him when he summoned his weapons. It was not necessary after all. As long as it is here, in this graveyard of shattered blades, a thought is enough to rival Gilgamesh weapons arsenal.

But that oddly-shaped blade, inscribed with strange glyphs, Gilgamesh has in his hands now, is something Archer can not trace.

It is not that he lacks the ability to do it, because it would not matter even if he were to train for another thousand years, that sword, it wouldn't be going too far to say that it is more than just unique.

This sword will never face a copy of itself, not even in this world and for Gilgamesh to use it against Archer...His anger must truly be greater than anything he has ever experienced.

Nodding sideways at his weapons the king of kings speaks.

"Trace as many of those trinkets as you wish, mongrel, create a thousand fakes if you want, someone like you will never defeat **ME**. This world of broken swords that you call your own, before I let you wound me even one more time, I will **TEAR IT APART MYSELF**."

With a startling roar the blade starts to rotate. Slowly at first but gaining strength with every moment the sword roars louder and louder and Gilgamesh is waiting calmly for the sword to gain the necessary power.

And around him all hell is set loose.

_Original vs. Fake_

The sound of breaking steel fills the air, pieces of broken weapons fly around like shrapnel and in the background the giant clockworks work tirelessly.

Like a massive steel wall Gilgamesh treasures protect their master, facing off against their copy's, over and over again.

But the king of kings does not move even as the roar of Ea starts to deafen even him. His face does not so much as twitch as he sees Archer closing in on him, swords in hand, ready to stop him from delivering his divine justice.

A thought is enough.

**A dozen swords**.

Faster than the eye can follow they descend upon their target.

**A dozen fakes**.

Rivalling the speed of their parents, they appear next to the running Archer.

Annihilation follows. Metal screams as it dies. The sounds are enough to make a normal human's ears bleed. Yet it is drowned out by the noise of this war of legendary steel all around them.

And through a cloud of metal shards Archer sprints onwards, the attack not even making him pause in his charge. His target is still in his sight.

The red-clad servant will reach Gilgamesh. He will be able to stop him. Ea still needs a few seconds for it to put an end to this twisted world. He needs more power.

Something shoots out at Archer, a flash of light reveals it to be made of iron, the moment it gets too close a copy is created and hits its counterpart.

And for the first time since his declaration of victory Gilgamesh smiles as he sees his opponent stumble with both, original and copy of Enkidu tangled around Archer's legs.

It is only a seconds worth of delay, the chain of heaven was not meant to bind someone with no divinity after all. Even both chains together provide only a minor distraction.

The moment Archer has Gilgamesh in his sight again he understands the new situation he is now presented with. His window of opportunity is gone. Even if he moves as fast as he can he will not be able to reach the king of kings in time.

Continuing his charge would be a fatal mistake. A fitting end for someone as broken as him...but... that's not like him at all.

There is still a chance for survival….even when faced against the might of Ea, the eyes steeled in battle see the path he must take.

His feet dig into the ground, bringing his body to a stop. The second his momentum stops completely, he jumps back.

Away from the certain death that awaits him.

**"ENUMA..…..ELISH"**

The roar of the oldest of blades as it surges forward swallows every other sound on the battlefield. For the first time since the beginning of their battle the sound of steel hitting steel is gone.

Harsh red light bathes Archer's world in deep crimson.

An unstoppable wave of force, enough power to cut this world apart, under Ea's strength space and time rend themselves apart.

And in front of Archer a wall of steel rises up. A shield against Gilgamesh's fury and Ea's might. Thousands of thousands of swords clot together, sacrificing themselves for their master.

A paradox. Those blades that he carved out of his own body. Archer sacrifices himself to save himself.

It is madness.

The chance of survival is next to zero…. but the possibility exists.

So he waits.

So he prays.

_Original meets Fake._

**"Unlimited Blade Works."**


	8. Chapter 8 Hill of Dreams

Miracle 8

**Miracle 8**

**Hill of Dreams**

He can hear it, the sound that heralds the end.

His world is being ripped apart by the power of the King of Heroes. Before the unstoppable power of the crimson blade Gilgamesh wields…

Nothing can remain.

Metal shatters and breaks under the strain, Space and Time are torn into shreds and even though his shield of swords Archer can feel himself weakening. The strength he had was not enough to defeat the King of Kings by himself, yet, the mocking smirk remains on his face.

Some battles are won by power, by the undeniable strength of the victor over the defeated.

"**Checkmate, Oh King of Heroes." **

And sometimes….it's all about tactics.

The Blades shatter, the gears that worked tirelessly grind to a stop and the magic that is beyond magic does not shatter, nor does it explode, no, it simply..fades.

The World which was spurned by the red-coated servant welcomes the combatants with streams of sunlight and a gentle breeze.

The Natural Order has been restored.

The King stands triumphant.

Covered in blood and more wounds than he would care to remember he simply stands there.

This…is Gilgamesh's total victory. One-armed and breathing hard, he greedily takes in the fresh air around the church, the rune-covered sword still tightly clasped in his hand, he has proven his legend to be true. His strength is no mere fairy tale, no fake might gained by fame alone. Words create Power and Power creates Words and through power….he will end Archer's tale here and now.

No one will sing this hero's tales ever again. That is Gilgamesh wish.

His features slowly shift into a smile. Not a smirk or a mocking smile but a honest to god smile. For the first time since his summoning into this Holy Grail War, that never ending battle interrupted only by a few years of peace, Gilgamesh feels…at peace.

This is right. The way to victory that was opened by facing the impossibility of his near….loss.

Something touches his shoulder.

The feeling of fingers clad in steel

Black Steel.

The armoured fist tightens with a sickening crunch as the black swordsmen looks down at his opponent. A small smirk blooms on his lips as his eye catches the wounds on Gilgamesh's body.

"Yo, long time no see."

For but a moment the king of kings is frozen in …shock…disbelief? This filthy thing should be dead, gutted by a dozen Noble Phantasm and bound by …Enk….Enkidu…..the blonde servant realizes his mistake the moment the handle of Assassins blade crashes into his face, the force of the hit sending him flying through the air, right into a tree a few metres away from Guts..

Assassin slowly walks up to the still stunned servant. His steps are light, he isn't even straining himself to move, his wounds do no make him any trouble at all. In fact, the armour on his chest and stomach doesn't seem to be damaged at all. Only undscathed black steel remains.

"Going off and playing all on your own and leaving me laying there all by myself, shit, you bastards sure are bunch of jerks."

A scream cuts his advance short. He knows that voice.

Without a doubt, that was the girl-master of that red-coated servant and seeing how that guy seemed to have suddenly disappeared he was guessing that guy had not been as knocked out as it might have looked.

"I will leave you to your foolishness now mongrel, but for taking up a sword against me, your punishment shall be legendary indeed, **filth**."

Snapping his head around he can only watch as the golden-clad servant fades away, leaving behind nothing but empty space.

The sound of footsteps alerts him to the return of the red-haired mage, Ilya and the blonde girl-servant he had fought before. The black-haired girl is not with them.

The smile has disappeared now, leaving a frown in its place.

"Those guys sure are annoying, they didn't even let me get in one good cut."

His scowl deepens. Then…

"Though, I guess that golden guy's pretty though if he can fight after a losing an entire arm. I guess fighting him again will be fun, though the shooting blades and that chain might be a problem."

Funny thing about revelations….they're never quite as useful as one had hoped for them to be.

Because Shirou Emiya did not need to know that Assassin's smile and scowl were both terrifying as hell.

**He really didn't.**

--

The white-haired servant stands there, on top of the stairs, like a king watching over his realm, but behind the calm stance lies a hidden anticipation.

he was waiting for him. Waiting for their final confrontation.

"You are late."

"Master? Are you sure about this." Saber's voice is a gentle reminder of her presence. Even though Rin is her master now she wishes to stand by his side and watch this battle. All things considered, he really is grateful for having been partnered with her, even though he was such a abysmal master.

"It's okay, there is nothing else left to do. Just like he wished to kill me from the start, I can't accept him."

Glancing at him worriedly the king of knights finally nods and turns to his opponent one more time.

"Very well, I will not interfere, but tell me one thing Archer. Why are you doing this? You are…the culmination of his dream. His ideal that has been realised, why are you trying to kill him?"

The red coat swishes behind Archer as he makes his way down the stairs, answering only after he has reached the floor.

"His ideal, certainly, I am what he wishes to be. Heroic Spirit Emiya, I am what this kid dreams of. I've saved so many people. Hundreds, thousands. I killed a few to save many. That is what it means to be a hero to this child. I slaughtered those I sided against and saved those that I sided with."

His voice is becoming harsher. With every word Archer seems to be spitting a curse at the young men in front of him.

"I saved everyone in my view. Trying to attain happiness for everyone like that, but, it never happened and in the end I was betrayed by those I had saved. But I still had hope, that I could do in death what I had been unable to do in life. To save everyone."

"So you become a guardian, doesn't that mean everything worked out?" Her voice is breaking now, the girl is realising just what happened to this servant. The fate of Shirou Emiya is unfolding itself before her mind and she doesn't like it at all.

"A guardian saves humanity, yes that is certainly right, by killing a few unfortunate ones. In the end, nothing had changed. I was still killing for the sake of an unattainable ideal. As a heroic spirit, bound outside of time as a mere existence, I had only one hope left. To kill Shirou Emiya with my own hands and wipe the Hero Emiya out of existence.

Saber opens her mouth once more but no sound escapes. There is nothing left for her to say. That man has only one goal now. His reasons are clear to her now. This man is plagued by them same concerns that she has.

"Archer, tell me one thing, do you have any regrets?" The question brings the red-clad man's attention back to his younger self. Anger shines in his eyes after hearing those words.

"Regrets….how can I not have any regrets. From the very beginning….the road Shirou Emiya walked is one plastered with regrets, strewn with corpses and the only constant there is pain. Call me twisted if you wish, I'm not the one lying to himself. What you saw was the truth, you should already understand it. "

Archer's voice has changed. There is nothing mocking left in it. Only hate and anger at the boy in front of him.

"Then we are nothing alike. Someone that regrets the path he has chosen, I will never accept someone like that. You are **not** my future. You are **not** my ideal. You are nothing but the remnants of a **broken dream**."

The boy's voice is more aggressive than before. His stance mirrors his enemy's perfectly. As expected. This style of fighting, of course it would fit him.

It is his own after all. The style created for Shirou Emiya will always be the best style for Emiya Shirou.

Yet, they have no swords in their hands. There is no need for them yet. This battle will not pit strength against strength.

**A battle of swords. **

_A battle of wills._

For these two, it is one and the same.

Another moment passes.

In a flash of light the twin swords appear in their hands.

They boy eyes his enemies blades. They will shatter his own swords; he understands that just by looking, his blades were not projected perfectly.

Archer regards the imperfect weapons of his opponent for but a moment. They look like the real thing but they lack true understanding. He snorts.

"It's useless I'm your ideal. You should realize that you cannot match me. Those swords of yours, they won't be able to stand up against mine. Throw away your life, throw away your dream and your ideal, because everything you wanted to be…is a lie, as fake as your strength, so just spare yourself the pain and….. **disappear**."

And with that he attacks. Fast and furious Archer assaults Shirou with his twin swords. Sparks fly where the two pairs of imitations meet. Yet, Shirou's blades are breaking. Again and again the imperfect fakes are shattered by Archers blows.

The attacks are too fast and too precise to allow for any break the boy might use. He is being forced back, losing ground after every clash of swords.

Finally once again one of his blades shatters, forcing him back and giving an opening to his enemy.

A flash of pain. One of the twin-swords cuts up his arm, spraying blood all around him and throwing him back.

He skidders over the floor before landing painfully on a pile of rubble which stops his unintended flight. The stone is stained with red. A moan escaped the boy's lips as he tries to fight the pain.

Slowly Archer closes in on his opponent. There is no need to hurry now, the boy can barely hold his sword, he is no danger to him at all anymore. No, he wasn't a danger from the beginning.

"Trying to save everyone but your self, living for the sake of everyone but yourself, such a thing can't even be called a person. Someone as broken as that can't possibly save anyone." His words are full of scorn. Scorn for the young fool in front of him. Scorn for the fool that became a superhero. The hero called Emiya that threw away everything for the sake of his ideal, for the sake of his dream.

He who has reaped only betrayal after betrayal for his deeds. Someone forsaken by those he had tried to save. Killed by those he had shielded with his own body.

"That ideal is as fake as you are. In truth, there is no such thing as Shirou Emiya. Even your dream is not your own, was never your own. The only thing that remains is the wish of a person even more broken. This is Emiya Kiritsugu's dream. You however have nothing of your own. You are nothing but an empty shell."

The boy is shaking now, his entire body is shaking and his hand can barely hold on to the single sword he still has, but he can not stop himself. His mind is already confronting something he never wished to face at all.

Because this is his greatest fear. The words Archer is speaking right, they only tell him what he already knew.

The Hypocrisy of Shirou Emiya.

A child that had lost everything, had everything burned away from him. A child that had already embraced the notion of simply fading away.

A child that was saved by a man and a man that was saved by a child.

The ideal that binds them, the wish of Emiya, which would shape the child into the bitter Hero that now, stood before him.

It had never belonged to him. A borrowed dream. Someone else's ideal. Something that had been taken and brought in from the outside. The wish for happiness. To finally put an end to the suffering all around him.

But how could someone that couldn't even save himself help anyone? Someone as empty as him could never defeat a Heroic Spirit. He must have known that all along. So why had he chosen to fight?

Because on that fateful day, when that man took his hand, when he saw the tear-stained face of his rescuer, for the boy who had lost everything, who had only seen the ugliness of death and suffering all around him for hours, after seeing that man's happiness at saving someone, it was like he had been given a gift. A dream.

It became the most beautiful thing Shirou Emiya had ever known.

And for such a beautiful thing, for walking towards that dream, his body would not give up.

Moving his lips slowly Shirou tries to get out the words he longs to say, finally he manages to spit them out, blood and salvia mixing together in his mouth.

"**Shut up"** The words that leave the young man's mouth are not what Archer had expected.

The boy cannot hope to win like this, yet he still struggles to stand up. His voice, though small seems to fill the entire hall.

"Break me a **thousand times** then…let them shatter this broken body again and again, it won't have any meaning at all Archer. As long as the core is good solid metal, as long as the fire burns hot enough, this shattered blade called **Emiya**, I'll re-forge it over and over again."

Blood is running down his arm, staining his clothes and painting the floor beneath his feet a deep crimson. The cut which goes from his elbow up to his shoulder is deep and it hurts like hell but he can still move his arm, even though the slightest of movement makes him feel sick in his stomach. He can still hold onto his blades. That's good enough for him.

"**If I have to kill one person to save a dozen, I will do so."**

He tries to take a step forward but his body refuses to obey him as fluidly as it did at the beginning of this battle. He feels slow, no he shouldn't try to fool anyone, he is slow. Their violent clash took a lot out of him, more than any other battle that came before it. Still, he takes another step, slow and sluggish, it lacks the grace that his imitated style had just a few minutes earlier, forcing his bruised body onwards. Fighting against a servant, even a weakened servant is not something he should have ever hoped to survive.

"**If I have to kill a dozen to save a hundred, so be it."**

He is completely and utterly outmatched. The red-cloaked servant in front of him is superior to him in all aspects of war that he can think of. He can not win against him. It is as simple as that. This is the difference between a servant and a master. This is Shirou Emiya's limit as a human. Even the copied style of Archer has been discarded now in favour of simply striking out at his enemy.

"**If I have to kill a hundred to save a thousand, I will do it."**

So…how can he still move that beaten and broken body forwards? How can he continue to swing those fake swords around even though he can barely stand straight? Why do his blows have gained such a strength.

Because when it's all said and done, for Shirou Emiya there is only one thing left to do, that is, to walk the path he has chosen.

"**But someday, I will give my life tens of thousands of times to save EVERYONE."**

A Path that allows no regrets.

This is why, even when his body continues to bleed, he fights on. This is why his strength will not waiver nor fade away when confronted with an impossible enemy like the heroic spirit Emiya in front of him.

A strength born from hope, from despair, from hate and from love but most of all, this is the strength of what Shirou Emiya considers his Duty.

His duty to those that died. His duty to those that lived. To defeat Shirou Emiya, that is what he considers his duty.

Defeat is not an option.

_He will not lose to himself._

**Not Today**


	9. Chapter 9 Nothing Lost, Nothing Gained

**Miracle 9**

**Nothing Lost, Nothing Gained**

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

‚**Fool'**

_He doesn't even bother dodging the enemy's slash._

Why?

_Attacks as weak as that can not harm a servant like him._

Why won't he stop?

_He simply shrugs them off, stopping them with his sword before they can even touch his coat. _

Why does that idiot child not realise the folly of what he is trying to do?

_Yet….every strike that follows does so with more strength than the one before._

Why does he fight when all he can possibly gain is death and betrayal?

What does he expect to find on that hill of swords, besides the broken pieces of an useless ideal? There is no hope for Shirou Emiya's dream, not even after his death. Attaining a victory here is meaningless, no matter who wins or who loses; there is nothing to be gained from this battle.

‚**Goddamn fool'**

Yet, even knowing that, the boy continues to challenge him again and again. His arms still swing those curved twin-swords he knows so well relentlessly, as if he couldn't stop even if he tried. His body simply fights on, knowing neither defeat nor tiredness. And with every step that shattered body takes the boy's will to fight grows stronger without any end in sight.

And even now the child does not see HIM. No, more than that, the boy CAN'T see him. His eyes are locked at something, far away in the distance, something only he can see, something that makes it impossible for him to look away, something that is more important to him than the enemy in front of him.

Not that the boy really needs to see his enemy. There is no use in that anyway. Sight is useless to him, his arms are too heavy, his reflexes to slow and his skill to small to use any opening his eyes could find.

But that doesn't matter….this isn't a battle of skill anymore after all and because of this….

He refuses to hear Archer's words. He refuses to hear the truth even though it is undeniable right in front of him. He ignores that this stolen dream can bring only pain to him and those around him. He can not accept the man in front him. The proof that Emiya's ideal is not something worth dying.

More than that, it shows that such a twisted ideal should not even be worth fighting for.

'**FOOL'**

So he curses the ignorant child in his head, without a single word leaving his lips, showering him with curses and insults for being who he is. For not being able to change himself. For not allowing himself to be changed. That child…no…that man, he realizes, is desperately trying to stay on the way he has been following for so long.

A path that can only lead to ruin, for its final destination will always be the same.

That cursed hill….

The hill of swords where only shattered blades and broken dreams remain. The place where Shirou Emiya will one day realize the futility of his wish. So he curses at the fool in front of him.

Every time their swords clash. – **FOOL**

Each time he thinks the boy will fall – **FOOL**

Every time the boy crashes through his defences – **FOOL**

Each time the child's words make him pause – **FOOL**

Every time he refuses to step back and let his enemy fall down – **FOOL**

And with the seemingly never ending sound of steel hitting steel in his ears and the sparks of clashing blades dancing in front of his hate-filled eyes, Archer wonders.

_When did he start cursing himself instead?_

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Night Before

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He is an enigma to her. This black swordsman. The servant they call Assassin.

Though, it is debatable if he can even be considered a servant. That man breaks too many rules by simply existing. For him to be a normal servant, the thought is laughable at best.

He has no master, yet he remains in this world.

His master was her master's enemy, yet he fought against Caster, going against her orders, indirectly as it may have been.

So she watches him, watches him as he nods to whatever Ilyasviel is saying. Another mystery, why does he protect the girl whose servant he has killed? Why does he care about her at all?

_Guilt?_

No, somehow she does not think so but…she can admit to herself that she is not especially good at understanding people's emotions. She is too much of a king and not enough of a person for that. That is the fate of a king, to always stand apart from her people. To protect them and rule them but to never be one of them.

Still, she continues to watch as he lays the girl to sleep. A flicker of amusement fills her. It is a wonder how such an act can look so gentle yet so gruff at the same time. Surely that man…he is not someone that is suited for this kind of care yet he seems to be used to it.

She waits till he leaves the room before she moves next to him, standing in the hallway she is granted with a clear view of the night sky.

Neither of them speaks for a while. She does not know how to ask the question that plagues her mind and he as nothing to ask of her.

The silence annoys him a bit though. It was different before, but now he hates it. Because when no one is talking, everyone is thinking.

Annoying. Thinking is such an annoyance.

Back then it was okay, to think of better times, of old comrades, to fantasize about his revenge. He liked those thoughts. They were all that mattered.

Stupid Elf was the beginning of the end of that particular habit.

And after him….well it wasn't all bad.

That's why he doesn't like the silence anymore. He prefers the noise of people talking actually. It suits him better, having the voices of others in the background.

But at times like this he doesn't want to think about anything at all, especially not about himself or the others back THERE.

Still, there is one sound that fits him even better.

Always has and always will.

The sound of battle will always calm him more than any talking or music ever would. The sound of steel crashing upon steel and the sound of swords cutting through flesh and leather.

The sound of blood being spilled and of guts getting skewered.

He pauses at that thought.

A flicker of irony fills him as he thinks about the meaning behind that sentence.

It's sad but true.

He grins at the night sky, revealing his white teeth in something that can only be called some sick and twisted incarnation of a smile.

Finally the silence is broken, Saber's words slicing through it just as surely as her blade would.

"Why do you help us, Assassin, what is it that you seek here? Why do you fight for us?" Her voice is gentle; there is no accusation in it. After watching him she thinks that she has finally gained a sense of understanding about him or if not him at least of his reasons.

Assassin closes his eye for a second, as if he were lost in thought, before drawing in a deep breath of the cold night air. A small white tendril escapes from his mouth; twisting upwards it disappears in the air.

"Why fight? That's the easy thing to answer." His words are spoken softly and when he finishes he taps his sword, sending her a significant look.

His finger continues to rest upon the edge, small and insignificant compared to the unwieldy lump of steel he calls a blade.

"The Sword." An odd quality, her voice definitely has an odd quality as she speaks those words, he notes.

"Yeah, Money, Pride, Revenge, the Greater Good and all that shit….doesn't really matter when it gets bloody and the other bastard is out to cut you open. That has nothing to do with why we fight. As long as you have a sword in your hand you fight…it's as easy as that."

It is no question.

The black swordsman speaks those words with full conviction.

And the king of knights only nods, because she too believes this to be truth.

"That's why the boy will win." He speaks again, without any prompting at all, surprising Saber yet again.

"He's just like us, as long as he has a sword he won' stop. That's why he won't lose tomorrow."

A small smile is his only answer.

She can't tell if he tried to comfort her or simply spoke the truth as he saw it but she guesses for the latter. He is not the type to sugar-coat things for anyone.

Yet a question remains.

"Why do you protect her then?"

"No idea" he pauses for a moment as he tries to voice his thoughts when it comes to the little girl he considers his master right now.

"That girl reminds of someone, I guess." Such simple words. Just as expected, he does not waste thoughts on his situation, he simply does what he wishes to do. A giant of a man that could have been a king she thinks, but he prefers being responsible only for …himself, his friends, that girl?

Next to his large frame Saber seems even smaller then before when he looks at her.

An illusion, he has not forgotten the strength that lithe body hides so well from view. Her blows are strong and her sword will not break, even from his Dragonslayer.

Besides, right now her strength is beyond what she had possessed in their first battle, even he can tell just from being near her. It is an aura of strength that wraps itself around the girl like a mantle or an armour.

"So you protect her…just because you feel like it?"

"Sounds about right, why not? The girl has got guts." He grins after saying this, as if it is some kind of joke, but if it was she can't say she knows of it.

"But it's just like the girl said, as long as I keep on swinging my sword she won't be hurt."

Watching the snickering man Saber cocks her head to side.

Then

A smile, small as it can be, blooms on her face. Maybe she finally found her answer to the puzzle in front of her. Whatever answer she was able to find, she is happy with it.

"You would have made a good knight, Assassin and I agree with your assessment, Shirou will not die tomorrow, and neither will Ilya as long you continue to swing your sword so full of conviction. Good Night."

With those words she leaves him be.

And the black swordsman still stares at the spot where she had been even after 5 minutes have passed by.

His single eye glows in the darkness for a moment as he looks directly at the moon.

It's a clear night.

"A knight, eh? Nothing bad about that, I guess but…me…. a knight….nah, I just ain't made for all that marble, gold, honour and that prissy noble shit."

He hefts his sword up again and makes his way to the room he was given, his steps slow and ponderous.

Before he enters the room he throws one last look at the moon.

"It's a nice night."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here and Now

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

How many times have their swords clashed against each other in the last few minutes?

Once?

Twice?

Or was it a thousand times?

He can't tell. He can't tell if he is gaining ground, can't tell is he is winning or losing. He doesn't even know if anything is happening at all.

There is only one thing that he knows.

The most important thing.

To keep on fighting.

He understands that it is the only thing that matters, it doesn't matter if his fingers are broken already, doesn't matter if his arms are slashed or his chest sliced open, doesn't matter if he can't see anything but THAT with his eyes.

As long as he keeps on swinging his swords it doesn't matter.

None of it matters.

He strikes at his enemy will all the strength he has left.

_He shouldn't even be standing._

Another slash, this time with the other twin-sword, the blow's strength forces Archer's blade back for a moment, eliciting a surprised flicker on Archer's face.

_He should be dead on the ground._

Again he strikes, giving his opponent no time for a breather, his sword coming down violently upon Archers and sending painful vibrations through both their arms.

_No mere magus could possibly defeat a Heroic Spirit._

There is no end; every attack that looks like it is the last resort his body can make leads into another one.

_It simply was not possible._

It does not matter.

Nothing matters to him anymore.

Nothing but the realisation that he must keep on fighting.

No matter how broken his body his, no matter what his senses tell him, no matter that winning should not even be a possibility.

All that matters to him now is to keep swinging his swords.

He won't give up. He can't give up. He owes that to himself. He owes it to the people that died back then. He owes it to the people that are dieing right now because no one is there for them.

Because, maybe there is someone out there, just one person really and that person might be in danger. He or she might be facing certain death. Surrounded by fire from all sides, maybe that person has accepted his death and yet…

Maybe that person is still wishing for a hero even when he is so close to death

For someone that can save him and everyone else.

He can't stop.

He won't stop.

He will keep on swinging those swords till he dies. Even if that hill of swords becomes his grave. Even if the people he saves will hate him.

He will still swing those swords.

**Because nothing else matters.**

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When their pitched battle finally comes to an end, Archer can see it.

He sees the blow before it is even halfway finished. It is not enough to break through his guard. It is too slow to surprise him.

An attack like this is nothing to be feared.

As a servant he realizes that it is not this blade that will seal his fate.

The moment he hears the words, that is when his movement simply stops. That is when the blade raising up to parry that brutish blow stops and he becomes open to this weak little attack from a half-dead man-child.

Those soft-spoken words.

"It wasn't a mistake."

He can not parry them. He can not block them. He can not UN-hear them.

There is no defence against those words. No Noble Phantasm can stop them from penetrating his heart. No amount of self-control can help him ignore them.

The moment he hears them, nearly drowned out by the sound of hammering steel, he understands.

This…is his total defeat.

Even though this is a battle without victor or a loser. Even though nothing could be gained or lost here.

He has lost because…his reason is weak. His heart is weak. His pain has made him weak.

Pain and misery have robbed him of the strength he once had. The strength born in fire, nurtured by that broken man and sharpened upon that hill of swords.

And he remembers, Emiya, remembers the man that would not stop fighting.

He remembers the hero that would not falter, no matter how many scorned him, no matter how much pain he was in or that he could not save everyone. The one that would not allow himself to give up.

And when the blade comes closer he UNDERSTANDS.

The reason why he lost, the reason why Emiya Shirou was the only logical winner of this battle. The reason why his thousand upon thousands of swords could not stop the man in front of him.

Even though it was a construct. Even though it was not the original body.

This, was his body, or as perfect a copy as it could get.

Killing Emiya Shirou, would be nothing more than giving up.

Such a thing could never happen.

Because this body, broken, shattered and tortured…would simply not allow itself to give up, would not allow Emiya to give up.

He doesn't feel pain when the steel penetrates his flesh. Not that he feels any pleasure either. He simply accepts it. This outcome, as absolute impossible as it should have been, makes sense to him. Nothing was lost. Nothing was gained.

Nothing but a short and sudden realization.

That man had no regrets.

Even on that hill of swords, even when he was dying…he had no regrets.

And because of this, he kept on fighting. For a better world. For those that couldn't save themselves.

For everything he believed in.

Archer closes his eyes, letting the sudden calmness that fills him now wash over him like a purifying bath, as he stands there, sword in his chest, his younger self still clutching the sword even as blood begins to run down the edge and darken Shirou's already stained shirt.

"That girl,…. always messes up when it comes to some things during important events."

His voice is calm and as he keeps his eyes closed when he speaks.

"Sometimes she can't see the obvious and she isn't very honest when it comes to her true feelings…."

When he opens his eyes again, they immediately meet his younger counterpart's eyes.

"But she is an excellent master and I can trust her with my life….she is Rin….besides an idiot like me…needs someone to stop him from doing stupid things."

The boy falls to the floor as the sword in his hand fades away. Still he tries to sit up again and looks at his opponent one more time.

"I know how Tohsaka can be…and….I will protect her….with those swords and with those hands, I will keep her safe."

"SHIROU"

Saber jumps the last few metres separating them, immediately checking for any serious injuries that even Avalon might have problems healing.

It is a pity, really. They do not see Archer's face as he turns around and walks away.

"ARCHER"

The shout stops him when he already has reached the door, drawing the attention of all three of them to Rin, her face flushed red now that she has freed herself and ran through the entire castle.

She wants to say something.

Anything really.

But for a moment she sees him standing in the light that falls through the door and then…

He smiles….it is….warm…no…..more than just warm…the girl flushes even more seeing that kind of smile directed at her.

"Please take care of that idiot me back there, Master. He will need it."

He does not need to hear her whispered "Archer" to know what she said as he finally turns around and leaves, his body already starting to fade away the moment he passes completely through the door.

Yet a single thought keeps on making him smile even as he disappears.

Truly

The only winner today was Shirou Emiya.

"**I have no regrets."**


	10. Chapter 10 Dream of the End

Is he too late?

Maybe.

Most likely.

But he still runs, racing the stairs upwards, taking one-two-three at a time.

The man knows that he must reach the top; he must reach the ones battling there and stop them.

This is not her fight. This is not where she is truly needed. Her strength, her light, all of it is needed to save the ones he cannot save.

His strength is an illusion.

But he knows that against the golden demon that awaits him, an illusion might just be the key to victory.

A black shape passes him by.

And something enormous cuts through the air with a sound that makes him shudder.

Assassin.

The one-eyed warrior reaches the top moments before Shirou.

And disappears. He made a promise to that little girl. To save that black-haired mage-brat.

The second Shirou sees Gilgamesh and Saber, he slows down.

„Saber!"

„Ma..Shirou?"

Gilgamesh's face is gruesome. Rage and utter hatred dance across his features as he glares at the back of Assassin.

„YOU!"

Before he can attack the black swordsman, the charging Emiya demands his attention.

Swords shoot out, forcing the man to parry them, destroying the weapons in his hands.

„Saber...go...save Tohsaka and Shinji. I will take care of him."

The words leave her stunned for a moment. Such brazen confidence in the face of the King of Heroes.

„Mongrel, who do you think you are. Only Saber is worthy of tasting my power. All others should just die and disappear like the filth they are."

„Master...this, aren't you too ..."

„It's alright."

His eyes, they are shining. It is as if he knows something she doesn't. A secret, an idea.

Emiya's eyes have been opened.

The boy that dreamed of Fire and Death has died.

All that remains is the man that thinks only of blades. That is all that fills his mind. That is all that fills his entire being.

Before long, Emiya Shirou will become a Hero of Justice. He will become a Super Hero.

That is his fate.

His future.

No Regrets.

Not anymore.

Not ever again.

The dream of justice, shall be forged into reality.

Saber nods.

She doesn't understand, not fully, not wholly.

But she trusts him.

Somehow, she has decided to trust this person that never really touched her.

So she does the unthinkable.

Saber turns her back to her former master and the King of Heroes and charges in the direction of the tainted grail.

„Fool, you have just lost your only chance at victory. Now everything will be cleansed by that tainted mongrel grail."

He is being looked down unto.

That is fine with him.

„Certainly, I'm nothing but a faker. That is all there is to me. I cannot do something as skillful as creating weapons."

The words make Gilgamesh pause.

„Faker....YOU?"

„All I can do, is put shape to my mind."

Rage again.

The King of Heroes is boiling over with anger as he snarls.

„Of course....two hypocrites like that would be too much of a chance. So you are the same....HAH. Your perfect mongrel self could not defeat me, what makes you think you can...I will crush you like I did to that red-coated Ant."

Gilgamesh has started to laugh as a madman would, trying to catch his breath.

„I am the bone of my sword."

Dozens of Noble Phantasms are released in an instance.

And he pulls the shield out. From the hill of swords.

The shield with such awesome defending power.

It holds.

And yet it tears.

It is not like that of the Heroic Spirit Emiya.

The shield is his body and it resists the damage while slowly being torn apart.

„Steel is my body and fire is my blood."

Gilgamesh is shocked.

If it is from the shield that holds when it should break or by the magical energy that is building up inside of him, Shirou cannot tell.

Not that it matters anymore.

All he must do now is reach that place.

„I have created over a thousand blades. Unaware of loss. Nor aware of gain."

„That shield...why..."

Is it wonder or anger that gives birth to that question?

Gilgamesh realizes that the shield will not fail even under the onslaught of his Noble Phantasms.

And he remembers that world.

And all the while Emiya's body is breaking apart.

From the inside the circuit is filled to the brim, no even more.

The capacity has been breached.

„Withstood pain to create many weapons. Waiting for one's arrival."

His mind tells him that his body is breaking apart, that it cannot take it.

Nonsense.

From the very beginning, when all he knew was fire and ashes.

„I have no regrets. This is the only path."

Emiya's body was made for this one magic.

So...there is no way it would not be adequate.

If that single circuit is not enough.

He simply uses those hidden under the darkness.

After all, that which is hidden still exists, no matter how far in the darkness it may be.

„My whole life was Unlimited Blade Works."

The moment the true name is cast, the world is burned away.

X X X X---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It looks like a dark sea when he first sees it.

How strange.

And revolting.

Pure Corruption stains the holy ground and in the middle of that darkness. Rin.

She does not notice him, most likely she cannot. It takes all her concentration to keep the darkness from corruption her. To stop it from killing her.

Assassin comes to a stop. He sees the girl but before he can step into the corruption he hears them.

„Sacrifice."

He knew it.

That much evil, how could they not come.

How could they not gather?

This place reeked of evil, of slaughter and death.

So of course.

The ghosts that hunger for his flesh and blood still, descend.

„Assassin."

He doesn't turn around.

Does not dare to turn around.

Because the ghosts are not ghosts anymore.

More and more are coming and if they feel the grail...then the grail feels them too.

Corruption meets Regrets.

And hate and envy.

The first shape that rises from the soup is nothing more than a crude human-shaped puppet.

But it moves fast, faster than it should and it charges at Assassin while screeching, voice filled by the rage, hate and fear of a lost soul.

A swing of his dragonslayer sees the spirit and the slime separated again.

Till they spirit touches another part of the grail's corruption.

And rises anew.

„What...Assassin...what are those...creatures."

He still doesn't turn around.

„That girl can you see her?...And that idiot.. he should be at the center..right?"

„Yes, that is what Ilya said."

Assassin grins as more and more spirits arise, slowly creating a circle around him.

„You think you can get there? Cause I will be taking care of those puppets."

The Dragonslayer is raised high. Black Iron reflects no sun. Only darkness. And the ever present blood-lust that the sword coils around itself.

„Come on you freaks, ain't a single one of you that is going to enjoy this."

Saber watches him only for a second.

The giant blade disappears as does Assassin.

A dance of death, not poetry in motion, but enough brutality and sheer power to awe any observer.

A moan here, a scream there.

And Assassin, single eye glowing as he moves faster than the eye can follow. His sword cutting apart their very essence even as the grail tries to use the broken spirits again and again.

Saber charges forward.

Two shapes rise.

A slash and a stab is enough to finish them. The moment the holy sword touches them, the evil spirit start to burn, agony overcoming their small minds.

Such purity is more than they can handle.

Even with the power of the grail, no, more like because of the power of the grail.

Evil stays evil.

In the face of goodness it must burn to ashes and disappear.

But before she can set a foot within the grail.

„DON'T"

Rin's voice.

„Master..why?"

„If...you touch it...that's it. I will...get that idiot Matou and then you will destroy this thing. Do you understand?"

Rin's voice is strained.

As expected.

„Yes master."

Trust again. She must trust her master, because if she cannot even do that....well..it is too late to worry about that. She dodges to her side as a slimy paw strikes at her.

Excalibur cuts the spirit apart before it can come closer.

Grasping her sword tighter Saber stands firm as more and more shapes rise around her now too.

Assassin is still fighting after all.

As King of Knights.

It would be a shame to lose now.

A burst of prana and the shadows continue to fall.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Die. DieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieD  
ieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDi  
eDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDie  
DieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDieDie

Damn that grail.

Who needed such a bothersome thing anyway?

Rin moves forward. Ever forward.

Because if she stops moving even for a second she will stumble.

And fall.

And die.

That is what the sensation of her smoldering skin tells her.

It is trying to wiggle its way inside her head.

Trying to pervert her mind, body and soul.

She winces but keeps on moving.

Stupid grail. Stupid Archer. Stupid Shirou.

Why is she of all people right here, in the middle of this corruption, trying to save that coward Shinji?

„You're surprisingly soft."

Those words.

Those damn sweet, stupid, moronic sweet words.

She is a mage.

To kill or be killed. A killer and murderer.

So why is she doing this again?

A memory.

A smile.

A kiss.

A.....Rin blushes even at the memory.

Damn you Shirou.

X X X X------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There is nothing around them.

Nothing but swords.

That which makes up Emiya.

The world he forged out of his dream, out of that beautiful lie he was granted back then.

Gilgamesh stares at him, he is furious.

„That damn hill, Mongrel. Who do you think you are?"

Shirou doesn't smile.

„I tore this world apart before low-life, I will do it again."

Shirou moves, taking a single step forward while taking a sword out of the earth right in front of him.

„You defeated Archer? Is that what you think King of Heroes? But we're not the same, Heroic Spirit Emiya and Emiya Shirou."

Gilgamesh laughs at those words.

„A mongrel will always be a mongrel. Nothing can change the nature of a man."

Shirou looks bored as he stares at Gilgamesh.

„Say what you will King of Heroes, but you should ask yourself only one thing."

The King of Heroes raises an eyebrow.

„Oh...there is no answer I do not have mongrel, so why should I bother to ask."

„Is that so...well then tell me King of Heroes...."

Emiya charges but his words are not a battle cry...more of a whisper, carried by the sound of a thousand swords.

„Do you have enough swords in stock?"

„YOU!"

Gilgamesh's furious attack is countered.

A hail of weapons deflected by those fakes.

No.

The boy surpasses him.

The sword in his hand cuts one of the flying swords apart before it reaches its double, forcing Gilgamesh to dodge the un-countered copy that is sent his way.

The one that had perfected it and the one that uses it for the first time.

The key to victory lies in the simple-minded charge.

He does not even think of using his swords to open a way.

He cuts and slashes open his own way, putting his body at risk, making his arms hurt every time he cuts through a Noble Phantasm.

And Gilgamesh must retreat.

Victory is the sweetest poison.

The difference between the boy he cannot match and heroic spirit he defeated becomes clear.

The one he cannot defeat, is of course, the one that carries Emiya's will.

„Damn KID. Don't overestimate yourself."

Ea is called upon.

The distance is right.

This battle could still find its end like the one before.

„It's alright."

The words he said. The promise he made.

He cannot allow himself to break it.

So when faced with the sword that can cut the world....Emiya calls upon that he feared.

It is there, of course, right in front of him, as if it had been waiting for it.

Waiting for its chance to spill divine blood.

Shirou's hand closes around the hilt of the Dragon Slayer.

His mind drowns the instant he touches the black iron.

He will tear, rend, cut, slash, slaughter, kill and murder, he wants to...

A scream tears from his throat as he charges forward, Dragonslayer raising high.

He cannot tell if it is his own scream or that of the sword.

But he accepts it.

Right here, right now.

In the face of annihilation, in the face of ultimate power.

He accepts that all he feels is his own anger, his own hate.

But he will not give in.

It is a part of him, not the other way around.

If that part must rage...then it can do that...within that slab of iron he calls a sword.

Ea charges and Gilgamesh scream of rage nearly manages to drown it out.

He remembers that sword.

He will crush it.

Emiya is too slow; to attack like that...he will not survive.

Shirou doesn't stop.

Doesn't slow down.

And the Dragonslayer howls in glee as man and sword are air born.

He is flying, fast, faster, the sword demands blood.

Ea's power becomes a maelstrom poised to annihilate everything.

X X X X--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He is grinning from ear to ear.

The black swordsman and the Dragonslayer in his hand are buried in a sea of darkness.

A moving, kicking, hitting, slashing sea of spirits.

He is bleeding from a dozen wounds, his body is burning from everywhere those spirits have touched him but he keeps on grinning.

He slides between two, crushes a head with his mechanical fist while slicing three of them apart in a flash of black iron.

A strike is dodged sidewise, the next one by rolling under it.

Knee-deep in corruption, surrounded by spirits out for his blood he thinks he is going crazy but he feels at home.

More so than anywhere else.

He laughs as he cuts through two more.

A battle for his life, with no regrets or anger wasted on his enemies.

The dragonslayer sings a song of devastation through the bodies of his opponents.

A moment's notice and he jumps, trusting his instincts as a strike shatters the ground where he stood.

Behind him a behemoth of a spirit towers. Thrice as high as he is, the abomination is nothing more than darkness held together by dozens spirits, their faces growing, stretching tearing through the exterior of the beast.

Guts charges, swinging the giant blade with one hand, severing a leg and using his own momentum to dodge two smaller spirits.

A quick jump brings him the other side of the fallen...thing....and he continues to carve into hit.

His laugh is raspy and rough.

And his single eye continues to burn with malice.

X X X X----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Saber is still unsullied.

Beast after Beast falls before her, yet her armor remains pristine.

That is the purity of the King of Knights.

Excalibur is still hidden behind the wind and every now and then she throws a look at her masters back, as Rin makes her way to Shinji.

Another burst of prana, half a dozen beasts screech at her from the sudden onslaught of light and before they can react she cuts them all apart.

In the distance she can see Assassin, fighting in way not unlike Berserker, tearing, slashing and crushing his enemies, two-three-four at a time.

She narrows her eyes only for a moment.

She will not judge him.

Not like this, not while they are fighting for their lives.

And after that...who knows what will happen then.

She side-steps almost lazily and stabs through another beasts, sending it back screeching and falling apart.

Then a pulse.

A wave of...corruption.

It forces her to stop for a moment; her body goes rigid at the sheer evil in it.

And the she hears the roar.

A wave of black has risen near Assassin.

She wants to warn him, but instead is forced to strike down two spirits as they attack from behind. Before they can stop screaming, she has already turned back again.

For a moment time freezes. She sees Assassin, sword held high, as if to cut even that wall of evil. The spirits around him are screaming in agony.

Then the blackness crashes into Assassin, carrying him away, drowning him in its sea of corruption.

And for a moment she thinks she can still hear Assassin laugh.

X X X X-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

What can change fate?

If one challenges the power that withstood all that came after, what can you hope for?

What could possibly be gained by defeating that which is supposed to be undefeatable?

There is no answer.

There never is.

In the end, the only answer one can find is a simple one.

Courage is its own reward after all.

What remains?

Victory or Defeat.

Emiya Shirou is screaming. As is the Dragonslayer in his hands. A roar of anger, madness and fury.

Yet, the man's voice holds more than mere insanity.

There is hope hidden behind madness.

Emiya Shirou is flying and so is the sword in his hand.

He cannot reach the King of Heroes in time.

He should not be able to.

But the cursed sword demands blood.

So it tears and cuts and slashes at the space between them, it slices through the distance between its edge and the divine blood it so desires.

It has tasted that blood before.

Just a few drops.

Now it will drink deeply.

Gilgamesh sees it coming. His eyes are so full of hate, but just for a moment they show fear.

And then the sword hits, cutting through space and distance, cutting through everything in its way.

Gilgamesh has no time to scream.

The slab of iron called Dragonslayer tears him apart instantly. It rips through the flesh it was denied before. This is what it is meant to do after all. To violate. To destroy.

The Beast has tasted gods before.

It will not be denied.

Emiya Shirou screams together with the sword even in bloody victory.

X X X X----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She is shaking, her whole body is hurting, but she moves still onward.

As the head of the Tohsaka line she will not allow herself to falter.

The last meters between her and the boy she is trying to save are pure agony. The darkness is making her skin burn and her mind churn. Death is trying to print itself all over her ego. The curses never stop. There is no getting used to it. No growing immune to it.

This is hate. Pure and simple.

When she reaches the boy she allows herself a moment of rest. He has a strange crown on his head, made of thorns and making him bleed even as he lies unconscious.

„A mocking crown for a false king." She realizes with a start. Truly, that servant has all treasures at his disposal.

She does not dare to take it off. She tries to wake him, but the boy continues to lie there, as if dead, only his irregular breathing tells her that he is still alive. Grumbling to herself she tries to lift him and nearly falls down.

His weight is too much for her already trained body.

To return with that load, she won't manage.

So...this is it.

The end.

The end of the Tohsaka Line. The end of hundreds of years of ambition. The dream of her ancestors...would die today.

She could scream at the injustice of it all...but that wouldn't be fair.

She is a Tohsaka after all. She knew exactly what she did when she agreed to do this.

There would be no regrets, no childish tantrum.

If her end would come today, she would face it with pride and do her name justice.

„Tch...Still, to die while saving your worthless hide....what a scam. I feel like demanding a refund. Emiya owes me big time for this."

The darkness is rising again, her safe place will be swallowed and she can see why.

Assassin has been taken down.

Swallowed by the corruption.

And now it rages, thousands of souls are streaming together, spirits of all kinds are gathering, to feast on the black swordsman's life.

„Damn it....why like this..."

The screams and moans threaten to make her deaf.

Glaring Rin stands up.

If this the end...she will face it on her legs.

She drags Shinji's body up, somehow making him stand.

„Stand up, you, at least show some courage NOW."

This is the end.

When the darkness explodes into a storm for a moment she thinks the sound truly made her deaf.

There are no screams anymore.

Only a single sound remains.

Her head nearly splits apart at the nightmarish sound.

When she falls to her knees and presses her hands to her ears she still cannot block it out.

And somehow she understands.

Let loose the Hound of War.

The Howling is only the beginning.

X X X X-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When the darkness explodes, the BEAST does not even pause.

It is a shadow, a dream, a mirage.

A nightmare that never ends.

Brutality given form.

Rage given freedom

Hate manifested.

The hound rages, devouring every spirit it can catch in its jaw, moving in ways not completely natural anymore as it jumps not from the ground but from empty air.

And where it touches the corruption it devours it, sending the darkness slithering away.

And always the howling, the sound that drives itself into your head, bites around and leaves behind only agony and rage.

Blind Carnage is all it desires.

Never-ending battle.

Kill.

Murder.

Destroy.

That is the truth it bears in its soul.

The nightmare from which it can never awaken.

Not that it wants to.

It is an animal after all.

So if because of its raging the darkness retreats far enough to open a path for that Tohsaka girl and the boy....that is certainly just by chance....Right?

X X X X---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Shirou finally arrives, he first finds Saber, standing at the edge of the darkness and keeping several spirits at bay at once.

All around them hell is set loose.

Spirits scream.

Ghosts race around moaning.

And the Hound of War still rages in the middle of it all.

„Emiya!"

Hearing Rin's voice he moves forward, closing the distance between himself and Saber. The Servant of the Sword throws him a single look, showing her gratefulness for keeping his promise before they move closer to Rin, keeping the spirits from attacking them.

The boy on her side is not awake yet, yet Rin holds them both up, marching over the ground that has been sucked dry by the corruption.

„Tohsaka, are you alright?"

Instead of answering Rin simply lets herself fall, letting go of Shinji and tries to regain her strength.

„Rin..where is Assassin, what is that thing?"

The girl doesn't answer. Can't answer as she suddenly clings to Shirou's shirt and pulls herself up.

„He is in that ...thing...master."

Saber's words shake Shirou out of his stupor.

„That thing? But...I don't understand...we have to take care of the grail now...so what..."

He stops.

As does everything around them.

The Hound, the BEAST that kept on raging is gone now.

In its place stands the black swordsman once more.

The Dragonslayer is stuck in the ground before him and before their eyes Assassin falls to his knees.

„ASSASSIN. Get up, we need to take it down NOW!"

Guts does not rise.

He only stares blankly at the darkness slowly pooling up again.

„Assassin!"

A black gloved hand tightens around the hilt of the Dragonslayer and slowly tears it out of the burned earth.

Yet he still does not stand up.

They cannot see it but Assassin is smiling sadly.

The grail has been hurt.

It has felt pain.

It remembers that feeling.

The curse floods out again, straight at Assassin.

„OI, girl, why don't you get out that shiny sword of yours?"

Saber gapes at that.

Using Excalibur with him in front of the grail.

„Don't be an idiot Assassin. Ilya expects you to return."

The giant on the ground stiffens.

His answer is but a whisper.

„Yeah...I guess...I just suck at that stuff, returning ain't never been my specialty."

Raising his sword while on his knees Guts smirks.

„Sorry, I can't seem to get up again, so come on GIRL, get out that golden sword of yours and give me a little push, will ya?"

The darkness has finally reached Assassin.

A scream escapes him before he clams up.

„Assassin...."

Saber hesitates only for a second.

The sword of promised victory is revealed.

As if sensing its approaching doom the grail's darkness tries to rise once more.

Too late.

„EX-"

This is the end.

Assassin's smirk changes into honest to god smile.

The curse is already trying to paint his mind black.

Death is coursing through his veins. Hate. Feat, Anger. Regret.

He snorts.

„Screw you, it was fun!"

„CALIBUR"

The beam of light cuts through the darkness.

For but a moment Assassin feels the light behind him, tries to rise and truly, manages to stands.

In the light of absolute victory the black swordsman laughs and charges into death once more.

So ends the battle.

And what comes after is another story by itself.

X X X X--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

„How?"

Her voice isn't even shaking.

Ilya is strong after all.

She has to be.

That is what she was created for after all, bearing any pain and marching onwards.

She does not cry when she hears how it ended and how he died.

Of course not, he killed her servant after all.

And somehow she knew.

Knew that that man wouldn't return.

That is the way he was.

His home had been somewhere else.

So when Shirou asks her how she feels she can only think of one thing.

„Assassin...he was really strong..wasn't he?"

After that...she doesn't care anymore.

Maybe she is crying, maybe she is not. The story is over.

If she is crying no one will see the tears shed into Shirou's shirt.

She is puppet born for the purpose of the Holy Grail.

Grieving for her two dead guardians....

Her „makers" would be furious.

She doesn't know if she should laugh or cry because of that.

X X X X---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Where do people go when they die?

Heaven?

Nah...he was pretty sure killing god's precious hand was a big no-no in that regard.

Hell?

He had been there, done that. He doubted they still wanted him.

So where was he now?

He didn't have a clue.

His hand was still gripping the Dragonslayer tightly. That grip was important. Never let go of your weapon. That was the main rule.

And damn it all to hell and back he was hurting all over, what kind of shitty after-live was that anyway?

He couldn't see shit either.

But something was putting some awful pressure on his chest and neck.

RIP

Something warm.

KILL

And he knew that smell from somewhere.

MAIM

Every instinct in his body screamed at him to kill whatever was clinging to him.

To let himself enter that precious rage that has kept him alive for so many years.

He knew that smell for sure.

To tear them open and cut them all apart.

Yeah, he knew it.

The hand with the Dragonslayer was raised.

The HOUND howled.

The sword hit the ground with clang.

The hand rose up and gently touched the head that was pressed against his chest.

Small arms tensed as the touch was noticed.

„GUTS."

Ah, yes he knew that smell.

That smell of woods and earth. Some spice and a bit of fire too.

His voice was no more than a rasp.

„....yo..."

„Please don't die...Please Guts."

Heh, that panicked voice...that's definitely his little witch.

„..I ...had a really shitty dream, ya know?"

Heh, it was finally over.

He wanted to laugh but that would have hurt.

„Don't speak, just rest, please Guts, just rest. You were gone so long...and now....please don't die."

Her voice is breaking so he gently touches her chin.

Hah.

Its peaceful.

He never knew he could experience something like that.

„We really thought you were dead!"

He smirks.

The dream of war was finally over.

He was home again.

„Well..I guess this means this is what you call a miracle?"


End file.
